


Modified Aspect Ratio

by sabrinachill



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: I know it's weird but just try it, It has a happy ending I swear, M/M, Reality TV, Science Fiction, Spies & Secret Agents, Temporary Character Death, Vampires, flagrant disregard for historical homophobia, the slowest of burns, the undead, the usual amounts of swearing and drinking and drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-05-15 16:50:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 77,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrinachill/pseuds/sabrinachill
Summary: The monster kidnaps Eliot and Quentin and forces them to star in its own chaotic television show. But it changes the premise every time it gets bored, so they're constantly facing entirely different scenarios and genres - zombies and romance and superheroes and spies and god knows what else. And somehow, in the middle of all that, they have to figure out how to get themselves home.****Brian wonders if perhaps he might be dead.He does this idly, like it’s nothing more than a vaguely interesting thought experiment, one in which he doesn’t have any real stake in the possible outcomes.It’s almost as if he’s imagined being dead many, many times before, enough that it’s no longer a frightening concept. (Although he has no memory of doing anything like that.)What he does remember is the stalker on the street, the handsome one with the glowing eyes and disturbing rant about playtime and friendship and wrath, and then Brian was just…here. Still standing upright but rendered immobile somehow, trapped in a seemingly infinite blank space where everything is warm and white and soft, like he’s been firmly shoved up the ass of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.





	1. Abduction

**Author's Note:**

> It's going to be a long, weird ride, everybody - eternal gratitude to any of you who go on it with me.

Brian wonders if perhaps he might be dead.

He does this idly, like it’s nothing more than a vaguely interesting thought experiment, one in which he doesn’t have any real stake in the possible outcomes.

It’s almost as if he’s imagined being dead many, many times before, enough that it’s no longer a frightening concept. (Although he has no memory of doing anything like that.)

What he does remember is the stalker on the street, the handsome one with the glowing eyes and disturbing rant about playtime and friendship and wrath, and then Brian was just…here. Still standing upright but rendered immobile somehow, trapped in a seemingly infinite blank space where everything is warm and white and soft, like he’s been firmly shoved up the ass of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

So, he’s dead, maybe. This seems like it could be some kind of low-rent afterlife - but probably not heaven, since that _thing_  is here with him.

It has morphed into a deceptively innocent-looking blond boy, having only mimicked Eliot’s appearance long enough to lure Brian off the street.

Not that the friendly face approach worked, really - especially since Brian doesn’t remember who the hell Eliot is - but the end result was the same. It got Brian here. It got what it wanted.

And that’s the problem - it always gets what it wants.

But, for this moment at least, that’s actually going to work _for_  Brian, because what the monster wants is for him to remember. It skips over to him and grins - a broad, gummy, guileless smile that is utterly at odds with its fathomless, coldly burning eyes.

“I’m going to make you better,” it says, hopping up to smack a wet kiss on Brian’s forehead.

And just like that, something slams into Brian’s head and he feels everything about himself surging and shifting, his mind simultaneously overcrowded and howlingly lonely, adrift at sea while the two storms of personalities wage war inside his skull. He groans in pain, and the monster releases its invisible hold, allowing him to move again. He folds in half, gasping, knocking his hat off and tugging at his hair like he can pull the excess memories - _person_  - out by the roots.

He can’t; he screams.

Thankfully, it only lasts a few seconds and then Brian is gone, drifting and dispersing like a plume of smoke on the wind.

And Quentin is back.

It seems so simple, what the monster did, but Quentin knows enough to recognize that it was a terrifying display of power - the kind that can rewrite someone’s brain between one breath and the next, no spell or potion required.

He’s afraid for the first time since he was brought here.

And doubly so when he can finally turn enough to see Eliot - the real one - sprawled artfully on the ground beside him, rubbing his temple. Quentin’s eyes rake over him, searching for any obvious signs of injury, relaxing a fraction when he doesn’t find any.

“I’ve never been so simultaneously happy and miserable to see someone,” Eliot says, reaching up for Quentin’s hand and pulling, using the leverage to help him stand. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… I’m confused.”

Quentin blinks a lot, as if that will somehow make any of this clearer. Because even without the fog of fake memories, even knowing about magic and the monster and everything else, he has no idea how they’ve gotten here - wherever _here_  is - since there are no visible doors or windows. There’s not even walls or floors, really.

Just this white, sterile, soundless space. And that little boy, that _creature_ , staring at them.

Quentin looks around, evaluating, trying to keep himself from freaking out. And it actually helps, because he finds that there are no weapons or manacles or any of the other disturbing kidnapping paraphernalia they always show in the movies. He’s not locked in a cage or a damp basement; no one is zapping him with a cattle prod or keeping him at the bottom of a well and telling him to put lotion on his skin.

He’s gotta admit - as far as abductions go, it’s really not half bad so far.

At least, not that he can tell.

“Any idea how fucked we are this time?” Quentin asks.

“Impossible to determine with the available data set. But I’m fine, at the moment.” Eliot shrugs, all arrogant elegance, and it’s so familiar it makes Quentin’s heart squeeze to the point of pain. Even here, even in this…whatever it is, Eliot still looks like the physical manifestation of Quentin’s teenage wet dreams, and he can’t believe any magic had ever been strong enough to make him forget _this_.

“Yeah, I’m okay, too, I think,” he finally says. “How did we get here?”

“Via some inexplicable psychotic monster mojo, which allows that thing to shape-shift and teleport and fuck only knows what else. It came up to me in a bar while looking like you and asked me to come play with it. I think it was using me as its dress rehearsal for snatching you.” Eliot licks his lips a little, the pink tip of his tongue darting over his full lower lip. “But if I’m being honest, that’s where the similarities in our experiences end. I followed it willingly. Gladly. One could even use the word ‘eagerly.’”

Quentin frowns. “You’d gotten your memories back? You knew who I was?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then why did you go with him just because he looked like me?”

Eliot gestures to the whole of Quentin. “Gee, gorgeous, I wonder,” he deadpans. “Honestly, it’s like you don’t own a mirror.”

Quentin blushes, feeling like an awkward idiot as usual, and tries to duck his head - but he suddenly can’t move again. It’s a disturbing feeling, like he’s nothing more than the monster’s Barbie doll. Plastic and lifeless, only able to act when it wills it so.

“Stop talking to each other instead of me! I brought you here, this is my plan and your only focus should be on _me_!” It stamps its little foot and glares.

Quentin’s lips twitch. He can’t decide whether to laugh at the monster or add it to his list of things that are small but scary, like black widow spiders, hemorrhagic viruses, and Margo Hanson.

“All right,” Eliot says, his words a little muffled since he can barely move his mouth. “What would you like us to do?”

“You’re going to play with me! We’ll celebrate and I have a super awesome idea that you’re going to love and _it’s going to be the bestest party ever_.”

Quentin flinches when party hats suddenly appear on all three of their heads - the pointy, cardboard kind, with elastic straps that bite into the soft underside of their chins. Crepe paper streamers float in the air and balloons drop from where a ceiling should be, drifting down to scatter across the white expanse that serves as a floor. Tiny multicolored fireworks explode into shapes like smiley-faces and stars, and a three-tiered cake coated in yellow and red icing pops into existence in a puff of flour, hovering to the monster’s right.

But the biggest decoration - and weirdest, by far - is the enormous blue neon sign with the words “Welcome to Hollywood!” strobing insistently against the white blankness.

The monster is now wearing a wizard costume, for some unknown reason, and bouncing up and down while clapping its hands and performing a horribly off-key rendition of “Party in the USA.” 

“This is officially the worst party I’ve ever attended, including the one where we murdered a couple of gods,” Eliot mutters.

Quentin’s answering sigh is epic and professional-grade, containing all the exasperated resignation in the galaxy. “Why is it that everything that happens to us is always equal parts absurd and terrifying? I mean, I could accept regular old fear and tragedy, sure, whatever, everybody gets those. But it’s like the universe gets off on dicking us around.”

He wants to slump, all dramatic and defeated, but he’s still pinned in place by the monster’s powerful will, like a butterfly in a display case.

“ _This is my party and you’re not celebrating with me_ ,“ it screeches, sounding like a chimera composed of a kid that dropped its ice cream cone on a hot sidewalk and a horde of demons swarming in from the bowels of hell.

Shit. That is not a temper tantrum Quentin ever wants to see.

“Apologies,” Eliot says, voice strained. “May I ask what, exactly, we are celebrating?”

“Well, first, that I’m with my friends and free!” The thing careens wildly back to childlike glee and exuberance, fast enough to give Quentin whiplash. “This world is so fun! I’ve discovered so many things since I got out. Things like nachos and palm trees and polka music and anteaters. Yesterday, I popped a lady’s head off and drained her spinal fluid - did you know that it makes a delicious drink when mixed into a blue Slurpee?”

The monster stares at them expectantly, seeming to want an actual answer to this. It even releases them from its strangling grasp.

“Uh, no,” Eliot says, carefully neutral. “A spinal Slurpee cocktail is not exactly part of my bartending repertoire.”

Quentin just shakes his head, a stray piece of hair falling into his eyes.

“That’s okay, I’ll make you one to try later. Besides, it’s hardly my favorite thing here.” The monster’s face stretches into a caricature of cheer, glowing eyes holding a hint of mischievousness. “Do you want to know what that is? My favorite thing of all in this world?”

It leans in like a playground gossip with a particularly juicy secret. “Television.”

 _Huh,_  Quentin thinks. _Honestly not where I thought this was going after the whole spinal fluid thing_.

“Television is the best thing in any realm. It’s a box that holds millions of worlds and people and stories, and I get to see all of them. It’s more magical than actual magic.” The monster starts skipping in tight little circles, conjuring remote controls from somewhere to try to juggle them.

He drops them all within seconds, plastic clattering against the floor and batteries popping out, scattering and rolling among the balloons.

“Well, that’s great,” Eliot says, tentatively, like he has to defuse a bomb using only the power of his words. “There’s a lot of good programs out there, we can give you some Netflix recommendations-“

“Oh, silly face. I don’t need that; I’ve seen it all.”

“All, what? All of one show?”

“All of all the shows. I’ve seen everything.” It giggles again.

Everything. Every episode of every TV show ever made. Quentin is equal parts jealous, impressed, and terrified.

Because it’s only been four days since Blackspire. Does this thing exist outside of time? Or does it have so much power that it can it bend time itself to its will?

And if that’s the case, can’t it find something better to do than Netflix with no chill?

He wishes this monster just had scales and fangs and was actively trying to dismember them. This whole mashup of gleeful-kidnapper-and-casual-murderer/nacho-eating-couch-potato is starting to freak him right the fuck out.

“So now I want to create my own show, with reality and fiction and all my favorites mixed up together. And, as the best part, I’ve chosen for you two to star in it!”

Something black and slimy has been quietly growing in Quentin’s gut and now it stirs to life, coiling in on itself and tightening painfully. “Oh, that’s not a good idea at all,” he says, holding his hands up in what he hopes is a placating manner. “I, uh, I know that you want the best for your show, and I have to be honest with you - I’m definitely not it. I’m not an actor. The closest I’ve ever gotten to acting is going around pretending that I’m not miserable all the time.”

“And you’re actually really terrible at that,” Eliot says. “Like, just, completely fucking awful. Everyone knows.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, trying to tuck his hair behind his ear before he remembers that Brian cut it. Bastard. “So, anyway, we’re clearly not the actors you want.”

Eliot nods. “Yeah, I mean, I’m flattered and all, and I can understand why you think my bone structure should be in high definition and worshipped by the masses, but the only kind of media I want to star in is my private collection of sex tapes.”

“It’s going to be you two. It has to be.” The monster’s eyes flash, its little hands curling into tight fists. “You’re going to be my stars.” Its power rolls over them again, tightening its invisible grip until they can no longer breathe.

It stares, shaking with fury, watching their faces turn so red they’re nearly purple, their eyes bulging and mouths falling open, straining to breathe. Quentin manages to make a small choking sound, and the monster laughs, loudly, before releasing them.

“Oh, I just get so _excited_  and sometimes I squeeze too much, and then things stop moving,” it says. “They usually don’t ever move again. But I saved you this time, hooray!”

Bent over and gasping, Quentin manages to ask, “But…why us?” His voice is raw and scraped out, like he’s gargled with gravel.

“Because you’re my very favorites, my best friends in the whole wide world. After all, you, Quentin, you told me you’d play with me. And Eliot is the reason that I’m free. So you two win a prize! You’ll get to stay here and star in my TV show. It’ll be made up of all my favorite kinds of shows, romances and sci-fi and fantasy and comedies - it could go on forever! But I won’t let anyone else ever see it, it’ll be just for me, and then I’ll feel special and won’t ever be bored ever again!”

It does a shitty cartwheel, landing ass-first on one of the scattered balloons and shrieking with deranged joy when it pops. “Pretty people doing exciting things - I just love it. Love, love, _love_  it! And now my two favorite pretty people are going to be part of the fun _forever_!”

There’s a manic glint in its eye, like a jackrabbit on cocaine, and Quentin’s gut twists again, harder this time. An all-powerful child monster has decided that he and Eliot are its latest pair of shiny new toys, and it’s going to bend them - and reality itself - to fit its every whim. 

The neon blue Hollywood sign, still flashing obnoxiously, is making a little more sense now, though Quentin really wishes it wasn’t.

The monster bounces over to the cake and digs in with both fists, shoving it into its mouth, red icing smearing all over its face. And then it shrieks, crumbs flying out of its mouth, “Get ready for your first scene!”

Some terrible music that sounds like a mash-up of at least twelve different television theme songs starts blaring, with the monster doing that little kid kind of dancing that’s basically just an arrhythmic bending of its knees.

Eliot rests a hand on Quentin’s prosthetic shoulder, absently toying with his wrinkled collar. “So, just to make sure I’m understanding this: The monster that was so terrifying that it had to be locked away in a castle at the end of the world for millennia is now loose, but instead of pursuing the classic world domination scheme like a proper megalomaniac, it has decided that all it really wants is to be the next Ryan Seacrest. And we’re its Kardashians, trapped in its chaotic television show for eternity.” He sighs. “You’re right. Everything is ridiculous and horrifying, just like always.”

And neither of them can see a way out. 

“Yeah, so do you, uh, do you have any input as to how we don’t wind up doing monster puppet theater for the rest of our lives?

“Just the usual - run, fight. Neither of which seem like viable options at the moment,” Eliot mutters. “But I suppose there’s a bit of a silver lining in all this - it could be worse.”

Quentin raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? _You’re_  going to be the optimistic one in this scenario?”

“The beast ripped out eyeballs and entrails, Q. The fairies got Margo and me deposed and sentenced to death. All this monster wants us to do is play pretend. Comparatively speaking, I think we’re getting a better deal.” Eliot toys with the cuff of his black jacket. “Though I could really use a drink right about now.”

A blue Slurpee immediately appears in Eliot’s hand. It’s suspiciously watery, as if it’s had extra fluid added, and half a second later he realizes what it is.

Eliot shudders, looking like he may be sick.

“Okay, yeah, forget everything I just said. We have to get out of here.”

Quentin is scrambling to think of something. Eliot’s right in that they can’t possibly fight, and there’s no point in running - there’s nothing to run _to_. Just this cottony white cocoon surrounding them, stretching infinitely in all directions. 

As far as he can tell, they’re completely screwed.

The song ends; the monster waves. “Have fun friends! I’ll be watching!”

Eliot’s spine straightens ever so slightly more than usual, the same way it always does when he’s bracing himself for a blow of some kind, or when he’s about to cast something. 

Of course. Quentin could slap himself for not thinking of it yet - the memory wipe must have taken more out of him than he’d realized. 

Magic is back. It’s being controlled, but it still exists. There’s a chance he can tap into it, do something to stop this, open a portal or something-

The monster snaps its tiny fingers. 

And they’re gone. 


	2. Relentless and Smelly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are, as always, much appreciated. <3

Well, they’re not _gone_ , not _really_ , not in a dead or mind-wiped way like they have been forty times before. Now they’re just… somewhere else.

An alternate dimension? Or timeline? Another planet entirely, halfway across the cosmos? Quentin’s mind can’t help but run through the possibilities.

It looks like a city, sort of - one that’s been abandoned for fifty years, then overrun by destructive giants made out of mud and blood and rage, and then _set on fire_. The crumbling remains of skyscrapers tower over their heads, and the sidewalks and streets are littered with chunks of concrete and the glittering shards of millions of broken windows. The burned-out shells of cars dot the road. Overhead, the sun shines bright and hot, beating down on their faces and cooking the pavement beneath their feet.

There isn’t a single other person in sight.

The still, humid air reeks of smoke and rot, the sickly sweet stench of death clinging to the back of Quentin’s tongue with every inhale.

“Oh fuck,” he says, raking his fingers back through his hair. It feels filthy for some reason, greasy and spattered with dried mud, and the fact that he’s currently scratching at his scalp with dirt-caked fingernails is not helping. “Uh, El? Why is everything gross and broken and on fire?”

Eliot is examining his own dirty hands and disheveled state with disdain. “If my current level of personal hygiene is any indication, the entire world has come to a goddamned _end_.”

A few small, distant sounds break the silence - the cawing of a crow, the tumble and crash of more rubble - and then a pack of zombies appears, groaning and stumbling and rotting. They’re several blocks away but headed in their direction.

“Yeah, that’s definitely not good,” Eliot says, grabbing Quentin’s hand, trying - and failing - to pull him down the sidewalk. “So, we’re stuck in, what? Some kind of _Walking Dead_  ripoff?”

Quentin just stands, frozen, and stares down the street. The zombies stare back at the two of them lingering on the corner, looking all alive and delicious, and their shuffling escalates. A little bit, anyway - they’re still a slow-moving horde, and significantly decayed, with lots of missing noses and exposed ribcages, their clothing tattered or gone entirely. An elbow tendon on one of the front zombies gives way and her forearm drops to the pavement with a wet thwack. The zombie behind her trips over it, landing face-first on the asphalt.

“I don’t think it’s _The Walking Dead -_ well, maybe it has a few elements from the later seasons - but it seems more like a messy mashup of at least three different zombie movies,” Quentin says, sounding clinical and detached, like he’s giving a graduate-level lecture on the subject. “These move more like classic, Romero zombies, not the faster versions that have been gaining popularity, but their appearance is—“

“While it’s always fascinating to plumb the depths of your nerdiness, Q, don’t you think we should be moving along now?”

Quentin shuts up, blinking a few times and giving his head a tiny shake, trying to forcehimself to get over the shock of their situation - which is a motherfucking _zombie apocalypse -_ and realize that he actually has to deal with it.

Like, right now. Because when he finally snaps out of it, he sees that the zombies have gained nearly a block on them.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Yeah, okay.”

They hurry off, neither of them having any idea where they are or where they should be going, except that moving away from the ravenous undead seems like a good start. They try a few doorknobs along the way, hoping that they can hole up in one of these seemingly endless stone buildings, but the ones that still have intact doors and boarded-over windows are locked down tight.

Quentin stumbles repeatedly over the rubble on the pavement, and feels the sting of a shard of glass through his shoe. Hopping around on one foot long enough to check for blood, he notices that the soles are battered and worn, with holes all the way through to his socks in places.

There’s holes in all their clothing, actually, along with stains and heavy enough wear that some patches of fabric are nothing more than a thin, translucent weave. It’s not what they were wearing moments ago, and it’s not anything either of them would ever choose to put on. Eliot’s in a tight black t-shirt and _cargo pants_  with a _machete_  strapped to his _thigh_ , for fuck’s sake.

Quentin bites his lip and files the image away for a later date, when he’s got the time necessary to savor it properly.

“Christ,” Eliot mutters, “Zombies. Why couldn’t we have started out with something pleasant, or fun, or at least not repulsive and actively murderous? We should be on _The Love Boat_  or something right now.”

Quentin looks up at him, squinting, and nearly trips again. “Seriously, that’s your reference? _The Love Boat_? How old _are_  you?”

Eliot waves him off with an elegant twitch of the hand. “Oh, I’ve never actually seen it. I just heard the title once and thought it sounded good - _The_. _Love_. _Boat_.” He curls his tongue slowly around the vowels like a generous, attentive lover. “Anything with that name should be all champagne fountains, mountains of cocaine, and buoyant yacht orgies.”

Quentin laughs. “I’m pretty sure that’s not even a little bit right.”

“Well, then I want to be in the porn parody. A sexy _Love Boat_. It would be infinitely more enjoyable than whatever the fuck is going on here.”

The horde behind them is getting noisier, their moans and groans definitely not the type that Eliot would prefer to be hearing.

“Well,” Quentin says, “you can try to file your request with the monster and see what he says. But I’m not feeling terribly optimistic.”

They’re walking quickly, Quentin struggling a bit to match Eliot’s longer stride, but the crowd keeps growing. It’s a surging, seething mass that somehow seems to creep closer even at its shambling pace.

Eliot glances over his shoulder and quickens his pace a bit more. “So, what’s the general idea in these kinds of scenarios - are we supposed to kill these things? How would we even do that?”

“They’re zombies, El.”

“I’m aware.”

“So you kill them the way you kill zombies.”

“Still not helpful.”

“Seriously? Okay, you, uh, you destroy their brains. I mean, that’s the most likely solution, but there are some variations on that theme depending on which type you’re dealing with and how the virus functions and whether—“

“Aim for the head, got it.” Eliot reaches over and smooths back a piece of Quentin’s hair, grimacing at the dirty texture. “Save that patented Coldwater overthinking for figuring out how to get us out of here.”

“Yeah, about that. I was going to try to magic us out back there with the monster, but now that we’re…wherever we are.” He flails his hands around a bit, trying to gesture at the entire city at once. “I’ll need some time to learn the Circumstances, do the calculations and then triple-check them to make sure we don’t wind up in some kind of interdimensional black hole or—“

“Yeah, mmhmm,” Eliot hums. “Definitely do that, but maybe later? When we aren’t out in the middle of the street waiting to have our brains served up on a zombie sushi platter?”

Quentin swallows, a quick bob of his sharp Adam’s apple, and they speed up to a light run.

Less than two minutes later, Eliot’s smoker’s lungs are wheezing and he struggles to speak.

“This is definitely not my preferred form of cardio.” 

Quentin has seen Eliot use telekinesis to press the buttons on a remote control that was _in his own lap_ just so he wouldn’t have to lift a finger; he can’t imagine that the man has ever seen the inside of a gym.

Well, the locker room, maybe.

“You _have_  a preferred form of cardio?” Quentin asks.

Eliot just raises an eyebrow and smirks, his gaze drifting down below Quentin’s belt. It is somehow the filthiest, most suggestive expression Quentin has ever seen, and he rolls his eyes at himself. Only Eliot could get him half-hard with only a look while running for his life from the undead.

* * *

Ten minutes later and they’re struggling to keep going, lungs and legs burning, and Quentin’s foot is bleeding from the glass on the sidewalk. There’s nowhere to hide, no place to stop and catch their breath. Just this endless stretch of urban nightmare.

And the ever-growing mob of zombies, swarming in behind them.

Quentin’s anxiety is starting to spiral, his fingers rapidly twitching and panic scratching its claws down the inside of his chest.

He needs a distraction, something to feed the insatiable beast of his overactive brain, and talking to Eliot’s all he’s got at the moment.

So he asks the first thing he can think of.

“How is it possible that you don’t know anything about zombies? A few years ago, it seemed like they were in practically every movie and TV show.”

“I was too busy having a life. You know, throwing fabulous parties and having sex with gorgeous people.” Eliot pants, a rogue curl falling over his forehead. “Actually, that reminds me - I did see part of _Zombieland_  freshman year. I don’t really remember much about it since I was tripping balls and watching it upside down with someone’s dick in my face, but—“

“Jesus. I get it, okay. You don’t know much about zombies.”

That mental image was definitely not the kind of distraction Quentin was looking for.

Eliot, breathing hard, bumps his elbow into Quentin’s arm. “Are you okay? Your cheeks are suspiciously red all of a sudden.”

Quentin shakes his head, his hair falling forward to help shield his face. “I’m fine, it’s just hot as hell out here and I’m not really a runner.” As if to prove it, he swipes his forearm across his sweaty forehead, leaving a streak of dirt behind. “We can’t keep this up - they’ll just wear us down and then eat us.”

“I’m open to suggestions. Has that beautiful mind of yours worked anything out yet?”

Quentin huffs, shrugging as best he can while jogging. “Try changing direction? Run in a zigzag pattern?”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when being chased by an alligator?”

“Yeah, well, alligators have small brains, and zombies have virtually no brains…maybe the same principle applies.”

So they turn left at the next block, desperately hoping that if they get out of the zombies’ sight, they’ll give up their pursuit - except that there’s another, even larger group at the next block, coming up the side street and heading straight for them.

“Shit.” Quentin stops completely, arms pinwheeling against the sudden change in momentum.

Eliot hooks his fingers through Quentin’s waistband and tugs him in close, keeping a hand on his hip to help steady him. “Okay, that move didn’t exactly work in our favor.”

“Well, I didn’t know there were going to be _more_  of them this way. It’s not like there’s an app that tracks zombies like Waze does for traffic so you can avoid them.”

“That would be good,” Eliot says. “I would buy that app. They could call it ‘Waze to Stay Alive.’” He smiles to himself at his terrible joke, lazily searching through his pockets and hoping for a flask.

He finds a half-empty pack of cigarettes instead and immediately lights one, taking a long, burning drag.

Quentin isn’t handling the situation quite as well, tugging at his hair and grumbling, “Except there aren’t any people left to develop it, Eliot. Or use it. Or support the internet, or electricity, or anything else. Ever.“

“Yeah, I know, I get it. End of the world, Dark Ages levels of tech, blah blah, it’s worse than Fillory.” Eliot strokes a soothing hand down Quentin’s back as a zombie staggers a few steps forward. It’s close enough that they can see the clouded, milky color of its one remaining eye. “We need a better, not-alligator-inspired plan here, Q.”

Quentin rubs his hand across his face, the stubble sharp against his palm. “Turn around and run the other way, I guess?”

(Honestly, he’s disappointed in himself; he really thought he’d do better in a zombie apocalypse than how this is going so far.)

So they try to backtrack to their original route, but as soon as they reach the corner, they see that it’s hopeless. The group that had been following them from the moment they landed in this godforsaken monster-playground-slash-hellhole has caught up and blocked them from any possible ways of escaping.

They’re pinned on the street corner, a stone skyscraper at their back, trapped between incoming seas of zombies.

Eliot drops his cigarette butt and seems to notice his machete for the first time. He draws it, waving it around a bit. “This thing would be a lot more helpful if I still had the magical kingly sword-fighting skills.”

“At least you’ve got a weapon,” Quentin says. After a bit of scrambling, he’s found nothing to arm himself with except a chunk of concrete from off the sidewalk and a “fuck my life” expression.

They position themselves with their backs against the building and the zombies surround them on every other side, closing in.

But they’re so _slow_. It’s more disturbing, somehow, having to just stand there, adjusting their grip on their weapons and listening to the scrape of shoes and flesh against concrete, the glass crunching beneath zombie feet, the groans and wet, sucking noises of rotting flesh that’s separated from the muscle beneath.

“So I guess this is going to be one of those bait-and-switch kinds of television shows, where you think you know who the main characters are only to have them die in the first ten minutes,” Eliot says.

“Well, we might get turned into zombies ourselves. Then we can shuffle around in the background of a few scenes, maybe eat one of the real main characters.“

“The only one I would consider eating around here is you.”

And then the zombies have come close enough that they can see their bloated, decaying flesh, the hair matted with dried blood and brain matter, and the strips of skin and _meat_ wedged between blackened teeth. The smell is overwhelming, more sickening and repulsive than either of them could have ever imagined.

A few of the closest zombies reach their arms out, fingers grabbing at the air in front of Quentin’s face in anticipation.

Eliot’s machete takes one of their hands right off.

And that’s going to be the beginning of the end, the thud of a zombie hand against the sidewalk at their feet, the horde growing more frenzied at the violence and spray of blood. Quentin lets himself look up at Eliot’s regal profile one more time and tightens his grip on the concrete chunk-

And there’s a roar, a mechanical one, louder and more insistent than the groans surrounding them.

At the back of the crowd, bodies start flying in all directions.

It’s Margo, rolling up in a Hummer with makeshift armor all over it, and driving _through_  the crowd, zombies bouncing everywhere. She’s wearing a skintight black jumpsuit and Fury Road levels of smoky eye makeup, and Quentin has no idea how she’s steering since she’s hanging halfway out of the window with a 9mm in each hand, blasting head shots.

“You fuckers waiting for a formal invitation?”

The Hummer doesn’t ever quite stop but the guys still manage to jump in, Eliot up front and Quentin diving across the backseat. He’s facedown in the black leather and doesn’t look up - it’s all noise and chaos, gunshots and swearing and moaning and the bump and crunch as the four-wheel drive climbs over piles of zombies.

And then, blessedly, everything evens out and becomes relatively quiet. He sits up, tentatively, and peers out the window - they’re clear of the horde, driving down a small side street and weaving around debris.

“Bambi, your timing is impeccable,” Eliot says smoothly.

“Yeah, Margo,” Quentin says, leaning forward to squeeze her arm. “I’m sorry you’re stuck here in this place with us, but I’ve never been so fucking happy to see you.”

“Well, was it worth it? Did you get anything we can use?” Quentin and Eliot look at each other, confused, and Margo glares at them both for longer than Quentin thinks is safe considering that the Hummer’s speedometer is hovering somewhere in the 70s.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “You horny little _toads_ ,” she hisses, pointing an accusatory finger. It’s manicured, but amateurishly so, and the black polish is chipped at the edge. This, more than anything, convinces Quentin that they really are living in a post-apocalyptic world. “You dicklickers only volunteered to go on the supply run so you could find a private place to fuck, didn’t you? I can’t _believe_ you, scaring the shit out of me, making me come out here and put my fine ass on the line so I can save you _again_.”

She shakes her head. “And it’s probably not over. Those rotting flesh bags are like a recurring yeast infection. Relentless and smelly.”

She takes a corner, hard, with a squeal of smoking tires.

Eliot shares a glance with Quentin in the side mirror and they have a silent conversation wherein they confirm that neither of them has any idea what the hell Margo is talking about. Maybe the monster gave her lines to say? Maybe she’s been brainwashed to believe this is all real?

They don’t try to figure it out yet, too exhausted and relieved to be out of immediate danger, tearing through relatively empty streets.

And now that he’s got a second of safety to breathe and think, Quentin contemplates using magic again. He could open a portal and let Margo drive the Hummer right back into their world, and they could worry about fixing her memory problem or whatever it is that’s wrong with her when they’re safely back home. He has no idea how to even begin to calculate the Circumstances, but he’s ready to just say fuck it and try anyway.

After nearly being eaten alive he doesn’t think he cares much where they end up as long as it’s not _here_.

But then Margo looks over at Eliot, the hard candy shell of her exterior cracking just a little, a hairline fracture that lets the tiniest bit of tenderness through. She rolls her eyes and says, “Forget it. I’m glad you’re okay. We should probably send Penny out later anyway - he’s been looking like he wants to punch something all day.”

Well, _shit_. Quentin doesn’t know Penny23 that well, and he can’t imagine that they’d get along any better than he did with Penny’s previous incarnation, but he can’t exactly leave him behind here. Especially if he’s forgotten who he really is, like Margo seems to have.

And there must be something like that going on if Penny hasn’t traveled himself out of this place.

So Quentin tightens his seatbelt and stares out the window - it looks like he’s taking this train to Crazytown one stop further.

* * *

At least it’s not far to their destination - after only a minute or two, Margo pulls up to a row of derelict warehouses next to a muddy river. She eases off the accelerator for the first time and Quentin’s queasy stomach is grateful; she drives like Dale Junior when he’s on the last lap of the Daytona 500 and hopped up on half a dozen Vodka Red Bulls.

She parks the Hummer behind the nearest building, pulling so close to a door that Quentin has to shimmy to get out of the backseat. She knocks, a quick, rhythmic little sequence, and they can hear something heavy being moved on the other side. They can also hear the groans of the zombies, much farther away now but definitely headed in their direction. Margo’s eyes flick toward them, and her full mouth presses into a flat line.

It takes Quentin a moment to recognize that expression, since he’s not sure he’s ever seen it on Margo’s face. Nervous. She’s _nervous_.

Holy fuck, things are terrible here.

But a few seconds later the door creaks open; they stumble over one another in their rush inside.

And once the door is locked and barricaded behind them, Margo half-collapses in relief.

“Fuck, I thought you guys were dead,” she says, nearly sobbing. “You weren’t supposed to be gone so long.” She throws herself into Eliot’s arms and he holds her tightly, one hand cradling her head against his chest, her ratted hair tangling in his fingers.

She’s brought them back to a makeshift safe house, which is really just a warehouse that looks like it was abandoned even _before_  the zombie outbreak. It’s a vast, cavernous space, with half the wiring exposed; insulation and air ducts are drooping from the high ceiling. Weak sunlight filters in through high, papered-over windows, leaving the room gray and dim, and Quentin can’t make out much beyond the few feet around the door. There’s a nearby corner where someone piled up construction supplies long ago - scraps of lumber and drywall and an assortment of tools, all covered in a thick layer of dust.

Penny sits beside it on an overturned five-gallon paint bucket, guarding the door and sharpening some sort of blade. He glances up, meets Quentin’s gaze, and flips him off.

Quentin returns the gesture and walks on.

He wanders around, finding nothing else interesting until he reaches the far corner of the enormous room. A metal ladder is bolted to the wall, leading up to one of the second-story windows. A window-unit air conditioner is perched there, looking a little unsteady.

He’s so busy looking at it that he doesn’t immediately notice when Julia emerges from the shadows, her usually thin frame whittled down to the sharp angles of flesh stretched over bone.

“Hey, Q.”

That soft little voice, those simple words - Quentin is warm and home and safe, like when he was a child. He instinctively reaches for her, wrapping her in a tight hug.

“Jules, shit, I didn’t know the monster had you, too. I thought you’d still have too much power for this thing to control you.”

She pulls away and shakes her head, her long dark hair matted into thick, ropy clumps. “Nothing has me,” she says. “And nothing’s controlling me. I’m fine.”

A tiny line forms between Quentin’s eyebrows. “Right, okay. How long have you been trapped in this, I don’t know what to call it, alternate reality, I guess? I was going to try escaping through a portal but I’m worried about fucking up the calculations and winding up lost in space or inside a whale’s liver or something. Have you got any ideas how we can get out?”

She looks at him like he’s suddenly sprouted a glittery horn in the middle of his forehead. “The outbreak started six years ago, Q. You know that. Just like you know there’s no escaping it.”

He shakes his head. “No, Julia, there _is_  no outbreak, none of this is real, something’s just messing with your heads—“

“Nothing’s messing with my head, Quentin. Did something happen to you out there? Did you get bitten or fall down?”

“Jesus, would you stop with all that and listen to me? We are in some kind of weird alternate dimension or something that the monster created. It’s holding us hostage and putting us through this whole zombie scenario because it thinks it’s funny or amusing or some fucked up reason like that. You have got to snap out of it and help us figure something out.”

The only answer he gets is total, absolute silence.

Julia doesn’t speak, she doesn’t blink - Quentin’s not even sure if she’s _breathing_. She just stands there, motionless, like a robot that’s been put into sleep mode. It reminds him a little of the Margolem.

Which gives him an idea.

He makes a square with his fingers and looks through it, searching for the telltale threads of magic.

They’re _everywhere_. It’s like he’s Neo looking at the fabric of the matrix. Everything - and _everyone_ , except Eliot - are composed of nothing but magic.

He sighs. He’s relieved that his friends aren’t actually trapped here with him, and at the same time he feels the loneliness as a drowning, crushing pain, the loss pouring into his chest like wet concrete. 

“Hey, El,” he calls, waving Eliot over. “That’s not Margo. And that’s not Julia or Penny, either.”

Eliot backs away from them, drawing in close to Quentin’s side, and looks for himself. “Shit. I knew Margo seemed off, but I was hoping she was just really high. And that she’d share.” He rubs at his forehead, all the alternate reality stuff making it ache. “Who are they, then?”

Quentin shrugs. “Nobody, not really. I think they’re like NPCs in video games.”

Eliot just stares at him.

“Okay,” Quentin tries again. “Think of it as if you and I are on the holodeck in _Star Trek_.”

“Never seen it.”

Quentin throws his hands up, exasperated at the entirety of his existence. “Uh, it’s all a simulation and nothing’s real? Everything’s made of magic? Everyone else might as well be pixels on a tv screen?”

Eliot squares his shoulders. “Right, okay. We’ve played along enough. This is stupid and we’re leaving.”

And with none of Quentin’s worries or hesitations, Eliot bends his fingers, working through the sequence to open a portal - and immediately the action freezes like someone has pressed pause on the entire world.

And Eliot starts choking. 

Quentin, panicking, tries to go to him, to help him, but he’s been paused along with everything else. All he can do is watch as Eliot’s face turns red and his mouth opens and closes, his fingers grasping at his throat… but there’s nothing there. Nothing he can pry off, anyway. He remembers this feeling - it’s exactly what the monster did to them back in that blank, white place. 

Eliot falls to his knees, his vision starting to go black at the edges, his lungs aching and burning as if he snorted napalm.

And just before he loses consciousness, he can breathe again, gulping air like it’s an ice-cold dirty martini.

“Okay,” he finally rasps. “I’m going to interpret my latest near-death experience as the monster’s sadistic way of communicating that there’s no magic allowed.”

The scene around him un-pauses and Quentin is released, immediately rushing to Eliot’s side and crouching next to him, running his fingers over his neck like he needs to reassure himself that everything is whole and intact and functioning the way it should. “Fuck, El, I’m sorry, I couldn’t move. Are you okay?”

“Well, you know I enjoy a little erotic asphyxiation as much as the next guy, but this is hardly the time or place.”

Quentin’s thumb is stroking softly over the pounding pulse in Eliot’s neck. “The monster doesn’t seem like the type to respect a safe word, either.”

Eliot smiles at him, his fingers tangling lightly with Quentin’s where they rest against his neck. It’s the closest to flirting they’ve been in what feels like ages.

And it shouldn’t mean so much. They’ve slept together more times than either of them can remember - hell, they’ve lived an entire lifetime as partners - but they haven’t really been together since the mosaic. They cuddled when they first returned, more out of half a century of muscle memory than anything, but as they’ve settled back into their old (real?) lives, they’ve strayed further away from that. They never talk about Arielle, or their son. It’s too painful, too complicated, and when it comes to dancing around emotional topics, Eliot can tango like a goddamned world class professional. 

And it looks like this reality is volunteering to be his new dance partner, because at this exact moment, when they’re right on the verge of one of them actually saying something meaningful, the door groans and bends, the zombie horde on the other side testing the limits of its hinges.

“Hey, Bert and Ernie,” Margo calls, pointing at Eliot and Quentin with a baseball bat splattered with dried blood and caked-on brain matter. “Stop eyefucking like you’re horned-up prom dates and get ready to start cracking some goddamned skulls.”

They separate and climb to their feet, Eliot drawing his machete again. The blood from earlier has mostly dried on it, a dark, sticky stripe. Quentin fumbles through the construction debris for a weapon of some kind, utterly unsurprised when he doesn’t find a single good option. 

He frowns down at his eventual choice, a small, rusty hammer with a cracked handle that shoves splinters into his palm. 

“It’s like this world is designed to humiliate me as much as the real one does,” he mumbles to himself.

Penny takes point by the door because apparently he’s a self-sacrificing bastard even when he’s completely fake and in an alternate reality. He has a sawed-off shotgun, which looks badass as hell and makes Quentin sick with envy, and Julia wields a twin pair of razor-sharp daggers. She flips them in a way that tells Quentin that she knows how to use them, but he wonders exactly how effective they’ll be against zombies. 

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out. The door, though heavy and barricaded, is no match for the wall of zombie flesh pressing against it. The metal hinges scream and give way, the horde pressing inside in their incessant, stumbling way. 

Penny takes a shot lined up to obliterate three heads at once, and Margo’s grinning fiercely, swinging like she’s Babe Ruth aiming for the fences. 

Julia’s blades flash, so fast they’re nearly invisible, and she drives them through either side of a zombie’s temple. 

Quentin’s so impressed that he forgets to be scared shitless for a solid 1.7 seconds.

And for a little while, he and Eliot manage to hold their own, taking care of the stragglers that get deep into the warehouse. They’re sweating with exertion and adrenaline, and feeling halfway decent about their chances, but the zombies do what they always do. They keep coming. An endless, ravenous, murderous stream pouring into the room.

Everything falls apart so quickly.

Penny, still right by the door and taking the brunt of the fighting, eventually can’t reload fast enough. He goes down with a scream, zombies swarming over him like ants on a dead frog. 

It distracts Julia; only for a second, but it’s enough. Her aim is off and one gets in behind her, sinking its teeth into her shoulder. Quentin chokes back a scream and has to remind himself over and over that she wasn’t really Julia, blinking back the tears welling in his eyes.

But with those two down, there’s not enough humans left standing to hold the flow at bay - soon enough, the three remaining are each surrounded, fighting frenziedly and desperately.

And because they’re so busy, so consumed with staving off the imminent death surrounding them, neither Quentin nor Eliot is aware of the exact moment when Margo falls. It just slowly, horribly dawns on them that her shouts of creative profanity have gone silent and they can no longer see her small, furious form.

Eliot knows she’s not real, that none of it is, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the loss of her, that this memory isn’t going to haunt him.

So he’s not going to watch it happen to Quentin. Not when he actually is the real Quentin, _his_  Quentin. 

“Q! We’ve got to make a run for it! Make your way to that ladder behind you!”

They battle their way through the crowd and eventually break free, sprinting up the metal staircase Julia had been lurking beneath earlier. It’s fastened to the wall but not very well; it shakes and shrieks and nearly gives way under their weight, rust flakes falling like red glitter beneath their feet. But they make it to the top, where they yank the air conditioner unit out of the window and drop it on the head of a zombie trying to climb the stairs after them. It’s satisfyingly loud and messy, but they don’t stick around to enjoy it. They slip through the open window, dangling by their fingertips before dropping to the pavement.

They run two blocks, gasping and stumbling, with no idea where they are or where they’re going or if there’s even any place to go _to_. The sun is setting and the hazy orange light and long shadows make it feel like a fever dream, a nightmare where they’re being chased and no matter how fast they run or what they try to do, the monster is always right on their heels.

Because it _is_ , sort of - the real monster is always watching. 

They’re reminded of that fact when, between one step and the next, the world around them puckers and _snaps_  somehow, launching them like a slingshot back across the distance they’d traveled. In half a second, they’re right back in the warehouse and everything is exactly as they left it; it’s as if the action has been stopped while they were away and lurches back to full fury the second they’re in the middle of it.

“Fuck,” Eliot mutters, lifting his machete again and putting his back up against Quentin’s.

“I’m guessing that was another one of the monster’s little messages. At least it was less painful than the last one.” Quentin swings his hammer into a zombie’s temple, rotting flesh and brain matter and thick, clotted blood flying out. He fights not to gag; this is so much worse in person than it ever was on a screen. “It won’t let us use magic or run away, so I’m kind of out of ideas here.”

“My usual tools are mind-altering chemicals and seduction, but I don’t think they’ll be much help with the undead.”

Another surge of them sweeps into the room, trampling over the broken door and body parts of the fallen zombies. Eliot gets separated from Quentin when he’s swept back in the wave, pinned against the far wall.

And that’s it. That’s the last tiny little chance they had of making it out of this, ripped away in the odds of 50 to 1.

A zombie lurches, sudden and unexpectedly spry, and gets ahold of Quentin. He struggles, hitting wildly with his hammer but unable to get it up to head height quick enough. The zombie bites his wrist, hard.

Shit. _Shit_. Every zombie story he’s ever heard says that he’s infected now. He’s going to turn into one of them. It’s unavoidable; the only question is how quickly it will happen. He gulps, trying not to choke on his panic, and takes another few swings. He has to keep fighting, but he can only stay here long enough to try to save Eliot.

And then he has to get far away, so he can’t hurt him.

Shit.

Across the room, Eliot’s struggling to get back to Quentin, but there’s just too many zombies. One leaps up, hooking a desiccated arm around Eliot’s shoulders, and rips a chunk out of the side of his neck with its rotten teeth. Blood sprays everywhere, hot and sticky, and Quentin completely forgets about his bitten arm because it’s now completely irrelevant.

This is it; the world just ended.

There is no way Eliot can survive that.

Quentin is going to have to watch him die all over again.

No no no no no no, this _cannot be happening_.

He drops his hammer. He’s screaming and crying and being bitten everywhere, devoured alive and he welcomes it, begging for the end.

And then-

He and Eliot are standing on the edge of a windswept moor at twilight, dressed like nineteenth-century English nobility.


	3. A Truth Universally Acknowledged

Quentin lunges, reaching for Eliot’s neck, pressing his palm to where the zombie had torn into it as if he could somehow staunch the blood flow, heal him, _save_ him.

But he doesn’t need to. The skin beneath his hand is smooth, warm and intact; he can feel the even beats of Eliot’s strong, steady pulse.

Confused, he steps back and looks at his own wrist, where he’d felt the zombie’s teeth sink into his flesh. It, too, is perfectly whole and healthy.

“But, how? I was infected. And I saw you, El, there was no coming back from that.”

_Holy shit_ , Quentin thinks. _I have an English accent_.

“What’s going on with your voice? What’s going on with _my_ voice? What in the actual fuck is any of this?” Eliot asks, with a similarly thick accent.

_Oh, fuck me, that sounds so hot._ Quentin’s fingers curl up against his palms, fidgeting with the too-long hem of his sleeves.

“Uh, I guess we’re playing English people now?” he says, trying to answer, but mostly just being hopelessly flustered and confused. He spins around, taking in their surroundings, and buying himself a couple of seconds to pull it together. It helps. “Okay, so that tells us, first of all, that the monster can control how we speak, and secondly, that this is probably some version of England.”

He gestures with a sweep of his arm. They’re on the edge of a long, sharp drop into the sea, high chalky cliffs giving way to a rocky, frothing shoreline. On the other side, a field of tall grasses slopes down the gentle hillside to an enormous manor far in the distance. The sky is gray and low, threatening rain, and the only sounds are the crash of waves and howling of the cold, damp wind, tugging at Quentin’s coat and finding its way down the back of his collar and through the thin knit of his socks.

“Bloody hell,” Eliot says, cheekily, playing around with his new accent.

“Blimey,” Quentin answers, smiling.

“Wanker.”

“Bollocks.”

“Tosser.”

“Pillock.”

They grin at each other like idiots.

“I think being stuck in here has already started to make us a little crazy.”

“Oh, Q,” Eliot says cupping Quentin’s cheeks in his hands, a thumb stroking over his cheekbone. “We’ve both been crazy for a long, _long_ time.” 

And as if the mere mention summoned it, Quentin’s anxiety starts to kick in, his hyperactive mind churning over everything that’s happened to them so far. He’s analyzing and overthinking, his fingers twitching as he paces, his polished shoes stumbling a bit over small rocks hidden in the tall, waving grass.

A storm is rolling in, the wind growing colder and blowing even harder, tangling his hair. It’s cleaner and longer now, like how it was before Brian.

“Okay, so, not to be too, well, _me_ about all this, but why aren’t we dead? Or at least mangled; we should definitely be mangled. Severely.” He stops pacing and looks at Eliot, who’s standing at the very edge of the cliff, the wind artfully tossing his hair and whipping his long coat around his calves as he watches Quentin’s tiny spiral with an affectionate smile. “Unless, maybe we can’t die in here?”

Eliot shakes his head. “No, I’m pretty sure I _did_ die, at least a little. I saw a light at the end of a tunnel - just didn’t follow it far enough to find out if it was the angelic type or the fires of hell. Which, let’s be honest, is far more likely in my case.”

“Well, maybe that’s it, then. Maybe we _have_ to die in here, and that’s what triggers the reality jumps.” Quentin thinks about what they just went through, the blood and the terror and the trauma of watching Eliot die. And then he imagines doing it over and over and over again. “ _Fuck_ , I hope that’s not it,” he says, dropping his face into his hands.

Eliot studies him for a long moment, then raises an eyebrow. “Let’s find out.”

And he promptly flings himself over the edge of the cliff.

Quentin’s heart leaps with him, launching itself from his chest directly into his throat.

For three and a half seconds he has to watch Eliot fall, the wind whipping through his hair and billowing his long, dark coat out behind him before he disappears into the misty sea, white-capped waves swallowing him before crashing into the rocky wall.

And then he reappears, perfectly fine, in the exact same place where he started. 

“There’s your answer.” Eliot brushes some invisible lint from his trousers and straightens his complicated, fussy tie. “Dying doesn’t make us switch realities and when we _do_ die in here, it doesn’t stick.”

As soon as Quentin can breathe again, he tackles him, screaming.

“That’s a damn good thing because I would kill you otherwise! Do you know what that did to me? Do you know how it felt to watch you die - _again_?”

Eliot is on his back with Quentin straddling him, beating at his chest, shouting with suspiciously shiny eyes. Confused, he lets it happen for a moment before catching Quentin’s wrists and holding them firmly, stroking his thumb in what he hopes are soothing circles over the thin skin covering the thrumming of Quentin’s wild heartbeat.

“What if you’d been wrong?” Quentin asks, his voice cracking and breaking like thick ice in the early days of spring. “Shit, El, that could have been it, you could’ve…and I… _fuck_.” Quentin swallows, forcing himself to meet Eliot’s gaze. “I can’t lose you; I cannot make it through this without you.” He takes a long, shaky breath, unsure if he means the monster’s trap or something more, something like life itself.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m fine. I’m sorry.” Eliot searches Quentin’s face, the old warning bells in his head blaring at the genuine emotion he finds there. Every instinct he has is screaming at him to run away, to make a joke, to avoid this at all costs, but Eliot tells them all to shut the fuck up. This is Q. This matters. “I really am sorry,” he says, softly. “I was actually trying to save you from worry, believe it or not. I wanted to help you figure out the rules of this place.”

“I don’t give a damn about the rules right now. You just…you can’t do stuff like that to me. To yourself.” Quentin deflates a bit, slumping over him.

A tear drops onto Eliot’s waistcoat, mixing with the light rain that has begun to fall. Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating the whitecaps of the angry gray sea.

Eliot rests his hands on Quentin’s hips, fingertips brushing up under all the fussy layers of coat and vest and shirt, seeking the warm skin beneath. Quentin is practically lying on top of him, their faces close enough that the puffs of their exhaled breath in the cold air intermingle and merge.

Quentin’s looking at the cleft in Eliot’s chin, at the sharp line of his jaw, at the gentle curve of his mouth.

And Eliot’s grip tightens, his fingers clenching, pressing into soft flesh. Quentin knows it would be so easy to lean down just a few more inches, to take what he wants, to end this stupid dance they’ve been trapped in for so long.

He had a lifetime with Eliot. He wants another one, a _real_ one.

He doesn’t know why he’s having such a hard time saying that out loud.

“Q,” Eliot murmurs, angling his head to try to catch Quentin’s eyes.

Whatever he says next is drowned out in a rumble of thunder.

The sky breaks open and the storm starts raging in earnest, lightning throwing their profiles into stark relief, the downpour splattering their skin and soaking into their already heavy old-fashioned clothes.

Neither one is sure who backpedals first. Someone looks away, the other exhales in relief, and they’re scrambling to their feet in the tall, sodden grass.

Quentin rakes his fingers back through his long hair, the water helping to hold it off of his face, rain-soaked strands dripping onto his shoulders.

He looks down at himself, feeling like an idiot in this outfit, like a Renaissance Faire reject that just took a turn in the dunk tank. Whereas Eliot looks sexy and perfect as always, as if he was born to be the lead in a historical romance, the rain merely emphasizing his dramatic aesthetic.

Quentin sighs. “So are we really doing this? Just going along with whatever the monster has planned for us, leapfrogging our way through realities?”

He sounds exasperated - and he is - but the truth is that he would be super into this under any other circumstances. It’s like nerd utopia, the ultimate cosplay. It’s Disney World on steroids, it’s the feeling of walking into Fillory for the first time, it’s an all-access pass to every fantasy realm ever dreamt of.

But having no control over where and when he goes twists his intestines into Gordian knots of worry. And no one is coming to help them. Their friends don’t even remember that they _exist._

Eliot rests his hand on the back of Quentin’s neck, thumb and forefinger kneading a bit at the taut muscles. “We’ve tried everything we know to do at this point to escape. So, for now, yes, we play along. Maybe we’ll get a window of opportunity to escape at some point, and we’ll keep our eyes out for it.”

But there are more banal, immediate concerns at the moment. Like the fact that they haven’t slept for what feels like nearly twenty-four hours, and that Quentin’s stomach is growling loud enough that he confuses it for thunder for a moment. He has no idea when the last time he ate was.

Far in the distance, faint yellow light glows in the manor’s windows, beating back the misting gray.

“Think that’s where we’re supposed to go?” Quentin points at it, having to nearly shout to be heard over the storm.

Raindrops cling to Eliot’s eyelashes, creating the illusion that they’re even thicker and longer than usual. “It looks like the only place around to get dry, so I’m going to say yes.”

They button their coats and trudge through the heath, mud squelching beneath their feet and sucking at their shoes. Quentin barely makes it twenty steps before it nearly swallows one of his. Grumbling, he throws out an arm to brace himself against Eliot and balances on one foot, trying to recover it.

He looks like a drenched, gawky bird pecking for grubs in the dirt, and Eliot can’t help but smile, small and warm and genuine, and push the soaked locks of Quentin’s hair back, letting his fingers trail over the water droplets on his cheek, swiping at those about to fall from his jaw. 

Quentin leans into the touch just as lightning branches between clouds overhead, the sudden brightness making Eliot’s hair appear darker and his skin paler, a study in striking contrasts.

And then, half a second later, thunder rumbles and Quentin shivers, straightening up as he manages to put his shoe back on. It soaks his sock and squishes with every step.

He tries to watch his feet from then on, but the house seems to grow larger and larger every time he glances up.

“Hello, Downton Abbey,” Eliot says.

Quentin shakes his head, a lock of wet hair sticking to his cheek. “I don’t think that’s what this is. The clothes seem older, more like the Jane Austen era.”

“But this is supposed to be TV, and she wrote books.” Eliot frowns. “Not that I’ve read any of them.”

“Yeah, but they’ve been adapted into a fuckload of movies that have aired on TV, and the BBC made a miniseries out of one of them like twenty years ago. If the monster has seen _everything_ that would definitely include movies and international stuff and older shows. Hell, I’m not sure it even has to be a show that actually aired, maybe it’s just a pilot or something.”

Eliot closes his eyes as if that will somehow block out the howling pit of despair that is their current situation. It doesn’t work, but it does remind him of what will. Searching his pockets, he produces a flask from somewhere inside his coat and sighs with relief, taking a long drink. He doesn’t recognize the taste, but whatever it is burns and seems to be impressively strong - it manages to keep his voice steady and bland when he says, “There really is no end to this, is there? The monster has so many options to choose from that it won’t ever run out.”

“Not in our lifetimes, no. But then, apparently it’s not going to let us die, so maybe we'll just keep doing this for eternity.” Quentin rubs his eyes, overwhelmed and bleary with exhaustion.

Eliot passes Quentin the flask and then drapes his arm around his shoulders, squeezing lightly. “Well, the last lifetime we spent together wasn’t so bad. And at least this house is bigger than that shack back at the mosaic. I mean, let’s be honest - size _does_ matter.”

The manor looms before them, vast and orderly, with four symmetrical stories, rivers of rain pouring down the dark roof, and thick smoke billowing out of at least half a dozen chimneys. It’s built out of some kind of stone that appears gray - but then, almost everything does in this dreary light.

“What horrors do you think await us in there?” Quentin is trying to sound ironic and brave, but Eliot knows him too well. He knows what Q sounds like when he’s scared. “Vampires? Demons? Old-timey serial killers with hooks for hands?”

They study it, suspicious, but they can’t find anything to be terribly afraid of.

In fact, it looks downright _cheery_. Warm and clean and dry, with fires in the hearths and candlelight flickering in nearly every one of the dozens of rooms. It seems overly wasteful to Quentin, until he notices the sheer number of people he can see through the windows. Dozens - no, _hundreds_ \- of them, mostly congregated in a large room off to their left.

“Actually, I think it’s a _party,_ ” Eliot says, his whole demeanor shifting into something that borders on giddiness.

Quentin has the opposite reaction. “So, an entirely different kind of terrifying horde,” he mutters. “Great.”

* * *

The second they shove open the heavy, carved wooden door and stagger across the threshold, dripping and shivering, they’re accosted by a butler that looks exactly like Tick.

“Master Eliot, Master Quentin.” He nods to each of them. “We expected you home much sooner. Some of the guests have begun to arrive.”

And Tick doesn’t give them a second longer before he begins ushering them through the hall, past sitting rooms and drawing rooms and a library. At the far end Quentin can see an enormous, glittering ballroom, music and the hum of conversation drifting out, along with the muted thud of dozens of leather-soled shoes over the polished wood floors.

And wafting over it all is the delicious smell of food. _Fuck,_ he’s hungry.

But it’ll have to wait. Tick bustles them upstairs and down a long, dim, drafty hallway, depositing them separately in adjoining bedrooms to dry off and change. Servants swarm around Quentin, and he’s eternally grateful that they’re there to help him dress in the fussy and unfamiliar fashion. It involves a white shirt and complicated tie, along with a vest and coat and stockings and breeches in shades of gray and cream, and shoes that don’t seem to be shaped for one foot or the other and pinch uncomfortably. Someone ties his hair back with a ribbon and he’s practically shoved out of the room.

He knows Eliot won’t be ready for another forty-five minutes, at least - servants or not, there’s no way that man is dressed and ready for a party in under an hour. Quentin’s plan is to just wander around the house and kill time so he doesn’t have to go down to the party alone, so he’s thrown when he sees Alice waiting for him in the hall, her hair up and her face looking naked without her enormous glasses.

The sight makes him smile and twinges something rooted deep in his chest. He’s only seen her like that late at night, when she was sprawled face-down in the bed next to him, her hair twisted into a messy topknot as she read from some enormous book held mere inches from her face.

“Hello,” she says, quiet and anxious as always, stepping with a quick, darting motion toward him.

It should be complicated; it should hurt. Because the last time he’d seen her she’d betrayed him, betrayed them all - not to mention the years’ worth of toxic history that had built up between them even before that.

But maybe it’s the surprise of her unexpected presence, maybe it’s the formal clothes and soft light, maybe it’s because he knows she’s not really Alice. All he knows is that, in this moment, he doesn’t feel any of that old anger or pain or confusion.

Being in this place, so far removed from who they really are and what they really do to one another, helps him to just…let it all go. His heart cracks open, tenderness and warmth pouring out, and he can’t help himself.

“Hey, Vix,” he murmurs, reaching for her hand.

She gives it to him easily, her elbow-length glove soft against his fingers. She looks gorgeous in a blue ball gown that matches her eyes, the low, tight bodice lifting her already amazing chest to dizzyingly new heights. It’s taking all of Quentin’s restraint not to stare.

“I don’t know why we have to host these things so often,” she says with a frown. “I know you hate them as much as I do.”

“Any chance we can skip it?” Quentin asks, hopeful. “I saw an impressive library downstairs - we could just hide in there for the night and read, maybe get a servant to sneak us some dinner and booze.”

She looks tempted for a split second, but then frowns. “We’re Lord and Lady Brakebills. This is our house, and that’s our ball down there. Our absence would be noted.”

There was a time he would have dreamed of this, of her looking at him like that, of Alice as his _wife._

It feels flat and stale now, like a greeting card talking about love instead of the real emotion. And he knows it’s not just because this is only an Alice simulation.

He loves her; he always will. But she’s not his future. She’s not his heart.

It loosens something restrictive and binding, a tightness in his chest he’s coped with for so long that he forgot it was there, to finally be able to look at her and admit that to himself.

He’s a balloon that’s been cut free.

He smiles at Alice and offers his arm. “Okay then. Let’s go party.”

* * *

The ballroom is packed with people dressed in finery, dancers doing something complicated and lively in the center and dozens more people milling around the perimeter. The whole spectacle is lit by hundreds of candles placed throughout the room - in a row of chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, sconces mounted to the walls between gilded mirrors, and candelabras adorning tables at regular intervals. A fire burns merrily in the large fireplace.

A few people nearby rope them into bits of awkward small talk and pleasantries, but Alice handles most of it in her direct, unblinking manner. Quentin’s attention is primarily devoted to scanning the room, making sure this really is just a simple historical romance, that nothing is waiting to ambush him with his guard down.

But all he sees are a bunch of bland people in silly outfits, including simulations of his friends. That’s Josh, smoking something that is decidedly _not_ tobacco with a small crowd in the corner, and Kady and Julia, nearly unrecognizable in puffy-sleeved gowns and their long curls braided back, keeping to the shadows and standing close to one another. Margo is holding court on the edge of the dance floor, obviously choosing her prey for the evening from the crowd of willing victims.

Penny seems to be the only one missing, and that realization makes Quentin like this place at least 17% more.

Actually, he decides, it all seems fairly okay. After the zombie world, he’d been worried that the monster’s little shows would just be a series of increasingly shitty scenarios that they’d have to wade deeper and deeper into with every switch, but this… it’s just a party. Not his dream place, not by a lot, but no one here is trying to eat his face off, so he’ll take it.

Alice smiles tightly and says a few more polite hellos, then makes an excuse about checking with one of the servants to make sure they’re ready to serve supper. He hopes to any god that’s listening that they are - even just the faint smell of food wafting in from the distant kitchen has his stomach aching with hunger.

But he forgets all about it a second later, when Eliot appears at the top of the stairs.

He’s dressed in something similar to every other man in the place, but on Eliot it’s transformed from strange and fussy to sexy and sophisticated - the high collar emphasizing his jawline, the trousers showcasing his long legs, his coat flashing tantalizing glimpses of his toned ass when the tails flip up as he descends the staircase.

He’s so tall and trim. On anyone else that build would appear gawky and awkward or, at best, blade-like, sharp and angular. But Eliot elevates it into something more striking, softening the edges, adding a languidness to his gait and movements, becoming fluid and graceful.

Quentin is reminded of their son’s wedding, of how dapper Eliot had looked despite his wrinkles and gray hair. He shoves the memory away almost as soon as it arises.

But he also can’t stop himself from walking through the crowd to meet Eliot at the bottom of the stairs.

Everything’s so goddamned _romantic_ in this light, soft and golden, catching on every sparkling surface and glossing over little imperfections. It glitters on Eliot’s cufflinks, shines on his buttons and artfully arranged curls.

Quentin greets him with a small bow, as seems to be the custom here, and Eliot returns the gesture with flair and a grin.

“I like this _much_ better than the last reality,” Eliot says.

Quentin frowns. “It’s riddled with historical inaccuracies.”

“It was created by a monster whose only frame of reference is a shitload of television, Q. Of course it’s inaccurate.”

Across the room, Alice meets his gaze with a smile. Quentin leans in close to Eliot and says, low enough that no one else will hear, “It’s kind of nice, having our friends here with us, even though they aren’t real. It’s good to see familiar faces.”

“Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot chides, jokingly. “Did you have a quickie with your not-Alice wife?”

“Jesus,” Quentin mutters, trying to tuck a piece of hair behind his ear, forgetting that it’s tied back until his fingers grasp at empty air. “No quickies. She’s not real, but she’s also Alice, and that would just be…confusing. And not at all what I want right now.”

Eliot leans down, his lips so close to Quentin’s ear that he can feel the hot brush of his breath against his skin. “And what is it that you want?”

Quentin looks up, open-mouthed, with no idea what he’s about to say.

And he doesn’t have to figure it out.

“Mr. Waugh!” Margo walks up and gives him the requisite curtsey, but there’s an accompanying wink and her expression is all trouble when she drags Eliot away, deep into the thick of guests.

Quentin watches them go, marveling at their ease with strangers, at the quick wit and sparkling charm.

And then he slinks off to a quiet corner. Even with everything he’s been through, all the growth he’s done over, well, more than a lifetime now, he’s still no better at this forced socialization thing than he ever has been.

He’s standing around awkwardly, feeling the acidic churn of his empty stomach. He wishes he had a copy of _Fillory and Further_. He wishes he wasn’t here.

He wishes he was _drunk._

So he drifts around the edges of the party, trying to find himself a drink, but there doesn’t seem to be anything available that’s stronger than red wine.

Well, it’s supposed to be _his_ house, isn’t it? So there shouldn’t be anything wrong with slipping off for a minute to find a proper drink…and maybe something to snack on. HIs stomach is growling like it’s been transmogrified into a small bear.

He follows his nose, getting lost twice before finding a small back staircase that leads down to the scent of roasted meat and onions. The kitchen is large and hot, bustling with servants standing over the stove and pulling dishes from the oven, loading serving trays and soup tureens.

They don’t even really notice when he skirts around the edges of the room, grabbing a turkey leg and hunk of bread before disappearing down a back hallway.

* * *

Eliot eventually tracks him down in the drawing room, sitting cross-legged on top of a billiards table, gnawing on the turkey bone and drinking from a generous tumbler full of gin.

“Stop with the side-eye,” Quentin mutters when Eliot hops up onto the table beside him and downs half his drink in one swallow. “I was hungry, and that crowd is a bunch of uptight, judgmental pricks.”

Eliot takes a long drag on his pipe, the smoke exhaling in small puffs around his words. “In their defense, they were created by a psychotically fucked-up monster. And we’re being terrible hosts.”

“Are we the hosts? Alice said it was our house, but it seems like you live here too.”

“I do. We all do. We’re - and I quote - ‘close friends’ and share the manor. Technically you own it, but we all live here.”

“How do you know—“

“I asked around. Discreetly.”

Eliot’s about as discreet as a unicorn farting glitter bombs, but sure.

“It’s just a stupid party, El. Can’t you handle this one?”

“I could,” Eliot answers, reaching for the crystal decanter and refilling their communal glass of gin. “But it’s so boring I’m ready to gouge out an eye just for entertainment.Those people are even more fake than the ones I normally party with.” He takes a drink, then hands the glass to Quentin. “Besides, I think the idea is for both of us to follow the script, at least a little. We’ll probably be stuck here until we do.”

Quentin takes a long drink and has to fight not to cough at the burn, passing it back to Eliot. “Fine. So, how do we do better as hosts? I’m getting tired of being stared at.”

“Here, smoke this,” Eliot says, handing over the pipe.

“What’s in it?”

“I have no idea, but I got it from Fake Josh. It’s excellent.”

Quentin inhales, the small leaves in the bowl crackling. Almost immediately he feels his limbs loosen and the world slow and soften, like he’s been submerged in a vat of warm honey.

“Better?” Eliot asks.

“Getting there,” Quentin answers, taking another hit.

“Good. Because you’re going to have to put the turkey leg down.”

“I hate this plan already.”

“It’s going to get worse. You have to circulate. Make small talk. Maybe even _dance_.”

Quentin takes the glass back and drains it. “Fuck. Take me back to the zombies.”

* * *

Alice has been holding court without them, circulating and chatting and making sure the servants are keeping the drink and banquet tables filled.

The dozens of couples on the dance floor are spinning and hopping and swooping in careful, controlled choreography. It’s all whirling skirts and timid clasps of gloved hands, flushed cheeks and repressed smiles. The musicians have hit their stride, the song reaching its crescendo.

“We should dance,” Alice says when she reaches his side, tossing back the last of her glass of wine, not seeming any happier about it than Quentin is. “It’s expected.”

So they take their place in the line of dancers. It’s some sort of complicated, intricate group dance, but somehow Quentin knows all the steps. He glides and twirls and promenades on cue, dancing well for the first time in his life, and he _hates_ it. Because it reminds him that he’s not in control of anything here, not really, not even his own body. He’s a marionette with the monster holding his strings.

For a minute there, he’d almost forgotten - where he is, what’s really happening. He’d forgotten what he was supposed to be afraid of.

But the fear slides away again quickly, crowded out by the gin and smoke filling his head. Quentin lets it go, gladly.

Eliot and Margo have chosen the same time to join the group twirling under the sparkling chandeliers. Quentin sees his face sliding past at regular intervals, can feel it like the caress of a hand against his skin.

They can’t dance together - not here, not in this time - but they stare at each other as they spin with their respective partners, drinking one another in as glances of shining hair against flushed cheeks and the line of hard shoulders in fitted coats, the flexing of thighs and calves, the crook of a finger, the lift of an eyebrow.

It’s dizzying and intoxicating, chaste and profane at the same time.

And late in the night, when most of the guests have gone home and the band is a bit drunk and playing sloppily, he and Eliot find a quiet corner far from the main dance floor. It’s nearly dark, beyond the reach of the dying fire, and the candles are guttering, wax dripping across the tables and floors, but the low golden light is doing something magical with the dark depths of Eliot’s eyes.

He’s playing with the collar of Quentin’s shirt, his finger brushing lightly over what he knows is a sensitive spot just above his collarbone. “You know, that accent of yours is kind of working for me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Quentin asks, flushing.

“Mmhmm. Definitely.” He slides his hand up Quentin’s neck, toying with his hair, his heated gaze trained on Quentin’s mouth.

Quentin takes a shaky breath, tentatively slipping his hand under Eliot’s coat, ghosting his fingers along the soft fabric of his shirt, feeling the warm, hard plane of muscle beneath.

“This is dangerous,” he whispers, almost to himself.

“Is it?” Eliot asks, low and rough. “Why? And what, exactly, is ‘ _this_ ’?” His eyes are shining with gin and courage, dark and challenging as he backs Quentin into a corner. “Isn’t there something you keep trying to say to me?”

They’re high and drunk and so hot, standing close enough that they’re practically on fire. Quentin’s blood is thrumming, fizzing, burning through him with courage. He’s finally ready. He’s going to do this.

He _has_ to do this.

He parts his lips; he’s going to tell Eliot exactly how he feels, or maybe he’ll skip it and just go straight for the kiss—

And he finds himself lying in a strange bed. The sheets are cold. He’s alone. And everything - including him - is in black and white.


	4. It’s a new dawn, It’s a new day, It’s a new life

“ _Fuck_.”

Quentin wrestles with the sheets, flushed and frustrated and so tangled in the scratchy fabric that he nearly falls over when he tries to stand. 

And as his feet almost fly out from beneath him, a laugh track fills the room, blaring from all sides like a pack of hyenas. It startles Quentin so much that he stumbles back into a wall, the sheet twisted around his knees and his hand pressed to his chest.

It just makes the unseen audience laugh harder.

Blinking, he looks down at his gray arms and his old-fashioned, black and white pajama set, then reaches up and pats his now short, messy bedhead.

Goddamnit, he is _over_ this shit. 

“Eliot?” Quentin bypasses the slippers lined up next to the bedroom door and pads out in his bare feet, the floor cold under his toes. His pajama pants are too long, like they were made for someone much taller, and pool around his ankles. It makes him feel like a little kid as he stands there, in what looks like a large living-and-dining combo room, quiet and dim, the drapes closed against the watery early morning light. It’s furnished with the straight lines and elegant simplicity of mid-century modern design.

It’s also devoid of Eliot.

“Hey, El, where are you?” Quentin calls, loud and annoyed. He’s had enough of this romantic tension nonsense. He’s feeling bold and decisive for once and he’s not going to waste that rare feeling or any more time. He’s just going to plant one on Eliot and see what happens.

Except he can’t find Eliot. Anywhere.

Instead, he finds a fastidiously clean and tidy house consisting of two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a nursery.

With a baby, sleeping peacefully in the crib.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Quentin says, sinking to the floor, pressing a hand over his mouth to keep back the sobbing, choking sound that wants to come out of him.

He hasn’t been around a baby since Teddy, and he never lets himself think about that. The loss of his son, of that life, was profound and life-changing; the memories are a gaping maw constantly threatening to swallow him whole. 

His mosaic life - his _family -_ is like a small, personal sun. It’s so powerful that his entire life revolves around it, but he’d cause himself serious and permanent damage if he ever looked at it directly.

This child is not Teddy. It’s not. But it looks a bit like him, in that way that all babies sort of look alike. He’s maybe a little less than a year old, and dressed in a diaper and t-shirt. His hair is a paler shade of gray than Quentin’s, so probably something closer to blond in a world with color.

Quentin sits there on the floor, one forgotten hand still clenching the doorknob above him, and just watches the baby’s tiny chest rise and fall with slow, steady breaths for a long time.

Long enough to quiet the chaotic static fuzzing his head and to slow the hammering thud of his heart against his ribs. Long enough to regain the feeling in his legs, to come back to the present, to remember that this isn’t real.

And that he’s still missing Eliot.

He backs out of the room slowly, silently, and lets the baby sleep on.

Quentin takes a deep, steadying breath and stretches his neck, realizing that, physically at least, he feels a little better. It’s as if he’s had a good night’s sleep, even though he has no memory of that. Maybe that’s why he was in the bed? Maybe the monster switched realities, and then knocked him out?

And if that’s what happened, Eliot could have woken before him and gone out to try to determine where they are.

Quentin hurries back into the front room and peers through the curtains. The house is on an overly neat suburban street, with women in fluffy skirts pushing baby carriages on the sidewalks, a kid on a bike delivering newspapers, and men in fedoras and overcoats waving to one another before climbing into enormous sedans with whitewall tires and heading off to work.

But Eliot is nowhere to be seen.

Quentin ruffles his hair, the short strands feeling poky and foreign. He hopes like hell that the monster brings his long locks back in the next reality - he feels naked like this, hating the cool air against the back of his neck and the fact that there’s nothing to hide his face behind.

On his initial search of the house, he’d noticed a phone on the wall in the kitchen, an enormous, heavy, rotary style that Quentin has only seen in old pictures of his grandma’s house. He knows how to use it, though - to stick his fingers through the dial and rotate them around, listening to the clicking little spin - if only he knew what number to call. 

_Phone books,_ he thinks. _Phone books used to be a thing_.

He finds one on the counter and flips toward the end of the white pages, scanning to where “Waugh” should be listed. 

It’s not. 

Fuck. Does Eliot have a different name here? Or is he unlisted for some reason?

A worse idea occurs to Quentin, like a sledgehammer to the brain, and his hands go numb, dropping the suddenly forgotten phone book on the counter with a bang.

It’s a much, _much_ worse idea.

What if Eliot isn’t here because _Eliot isn’t here?_

What if the monster decided to separate them, putting them in different realities? Or could it have pulled Eliot out of this whole TV show thing altogether and be currently punishing him in some other, less creative and bloodier way?

What if Quentin never sees him again?

He fumbles for the closest chair, sinking into it and burying his face in shaking hands. 

_Breathe_ , he tells himself. _Just breathe_.

The monster told them it chose them because they were its favorites. And it won’t let them really die in here, so it must not be bored with them yet. They’ve given it no reason to change the rules on them.

So, until he has evidence to the contrary, he has to believe that Eliot is fine, wherever he is.

He _has_ to be.

Quentin repeats it until he almost believes it, lowering his hands to his lap with a sigh. A simple band is wrapped around his ring finger, and he wonders if Alice is his wife here, too.

But if so, where is she? And why didn’t he see any dresses in the closet, or makeup in the bathroom? There’s no pictures, anywhere, to give him any hint.

He might try to figure it out, or check the phone book for Quinn or Hanson or Wicker or, hell, even Adiyodi, but the baby starts to cry.

He could just ignore it; technically, it’s not real. It’s just a spell, shaped to look and sound and act like a baby - but Quentin knows he’s not going to just walk out on it.

Instead, he goes to it slowly, like he’s afraid it will hurt him. Because, in a way, it does.

But the second Quentin lifts him, cradling the child to his chest and instinctively swaying with him, he remembers it all. The way his hair smells, the feel of the warm weight in his arms, the way Quentin’s hand spans the entire width of his back, the relief when the ear-piercing screaming finally stops. And it’s easy to troubleshoot this particular issue - the diaper is heavy and full, and Quentin knows how to fix that.

It feels good to have something small to set right.

He lays the baby on a changing table and reaches for a fresh diaper and - because apparently this is a sitcom and Quentin has absolutely zero good luck - the boy starts peeing as soon as the old diaper is removed. It arcs up in a steady stream, nearly hitting Quentin in the face.

The audience laughs, uproariously.

Quentin just raises his middle finger at them.

He carries the boy into the kitchen and feeds him some baby cereal he finds in the pantry. Most of it winds up dripping down the wall, splattering the floor, and staining Quentin’s pajama top (much to the delight of the invisible laughers) but the kid seems happy, so Quentin doesn’t really care.

All he cares about is finding Eliot.

He sets the baby up in a playpen in the living room with some wooden blocks and a weird looking stuffed bear and turns on the blocky tv, angling the rabbit ear antenna until the picture is mostly clear.

And then Quentin doesn’t know what to do with himself. He wants to leave, to try to find Eliot, but there’s no car in his driveway.

He frowns, fingers twitching.

He wonders if Eliot is out there, wandering around the town, looking for him. Or maybe the opposite is true, maybe he’s not worried about Quentin at all, maybe he’s found someone else to entertain him in this reality. Maybe he’s not even here, maybe the monster left him in Austen-land or sent him to a different reality altogether and is watching them simultaneously on split screen. 

Quentin stares at the decorative clock on the mantle, listening to its loud, steady ticking, trying to slow his heartbeat to match it. He fails. 

He goes back to his bedroom and puts on a pair of ridiculously high-waisted pants he finds hanging in his closet, buttons up a fresh, crisp white shirt, and ties on a pair of shiny black oxfords.

Then he sits on the edge of the bed and bites his nails for a bit.

He goes into the bathroom and tries to fix his hair with the styling cream he finds in the medicine cabinet, but it’s been so long since he had hair this short that he has no idea what to do with it.

Eliot would know. Quentin feels his absence like an amputation, a missing limb that still aches with phantom pain.

He paces across the kitchen linoleum, drinking black coffee and nibbling on a piece of toast. He decides the house is too small, or maybe his nervous energy is just too big, but either way, he searches until he finds a stroller folded up in the hall closet and takes the baby for a walk around the neighborhood.

(He trips over the welcome mat on his front porch, much to the audience’s delight.)

He hopes that Eliot might live nearby, somewhere, but when he spots a woman out doing some gardening and asks if she knows where Eliot might be, she just looks at him strangely and then goes inside her house.

He groans and spins around, looking at dark gray trees against a nearly white sky, manicured gray lawns and jet black birds flitting between trimmed charcoal hedges and white picket fences. His brain knows what the colors should be, and for a split second it tries to fill them in, to show him green grass and blue sky, but it fails.

All he sees is gray.

In a moment of melodramatic despair, he wonders if this place really is black and white or if that’s just how it seems in a world without Eliot.

So he trudges back home. He retrieves the newspaper from the driveway on his way in and then sits at the kitchen table, browsing articles about the space race, Vietnam, and civil rights demonstrations. The ink rubs off on his skin, staining his fingers a darker shade of gray. 

He tries to make lunch but it burns so badly it catches fire on the stove, everyone laughing uproariously as he dumps flour on it and swears in a way that he knows is unacceptable on old sitcoms.

He puts the baby in a high chair, ties on a bib, and feeds him some disgustingly mushy gray baby food. He wonders what his name is, then decides he doesn’t want to know.

He hasn’t got enough room in his heart for another child, especially not one that he knows he’ll be pulled away from in a day or two.

Is it a day or two? How does the passage of time inside here relate to the real world? How long did the monster have him sleeping for? Is it possible that all his friends are already old or dead?

Quentin is pretty sure he’s going to lose his motherfucking mind in here on his own.

He’s a knot of worry twisting tighter and tighter, and he can’t shake the possibility that Eliot isn’t coming back. That they won’t find each other again, that they’re more separated now than they were even when Eliot stayed in Fillory and Quentin returned to Earth.

And the _regret,_ the incessant weight of it, punctuated by the repetitive stab of remembering that he’d had so many chances to say everything he’d needed to say, if only he’d found the courage. Why did he waste so much time with quests and magic and clinging to the last threads of feelings for Alice instead of just telling Eliot what he knew to be true all along?

He shuts his eyes and rests his cheek against the cool Formica table, counting his breaths until the latest wave of panic ebbs.

The baby flings a glob of mushy food against the back of his head.

So Quentin cleans them both up and they spend a little time watching the tiny TV in the living room, not really processing any of it.

Is this boring tedium going to be his life now? Quentin feels it like a colony of ants scurrying under his skin and he hops up, searching for a distraction.

He finds a small collection of picture books in the nursery and reads one to the baby, then puts him down for a nap.

Then he wanders back out to the living room and puts on a record - Nina Simone - and pours himself a generous drink from the decanter set on the sideboard. He paces around the small dining table, loops the coffee table, trails his fingers across the curtains.

And then he nearly has a heart attack.

Because the front door swings open and Eliot strides through to a round of applause from the unseen audience, hanging a coat and fedora on the hatstand by the door. He’s carrying a briefcase, wearing a suit and tie and sardonic smile.

“Hi, honey, I’m home.” 

“Oh, thank fuck,” Quentin says, crossing the room in two strides, wrapping Eliot’s skinny tie around his fist and tugging him into a fierce kiss. 

Eliot doesn’t even hesitate to kiss him back, as if he’s been expecting this moment for ages. He drops the briefcase and cups the back of Quentin’s head with one hand, the other gripping at his hip to pull him even closer.

The audience explodes into cheers and hoots and whistles, but neither one of them notices. 

“I thought you were gone,” Quentin whispers against his lips. 

“Just bringing home the bacon, dear,” Eliot replies, grazing his teeth over Quentin’s lower lip. “If I’d known this was your response to me getting a 9-to-5 I’d have done it a long time ago.”

Quentin’s pulling at Eliot’s shirt, untucking it so he can get his greedy, desperate hands at bare skin. “I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know you lived here with me.” Quentin’s fingertips press into Eliot’s sides, reassuring himself of the hard, solid, _realness_ of him. “I woke up alone.”

Eliot’s gaze is this heated weight, like molten lead that Quentin can feel pouring into him, warming and filling the hollow, empty places in his cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones. It’s fierce and insistent and undeniable.

“Well, I have no intention of ever allowing that to happen again,” Eliot growls, lifting Quentin off his feet until his legs are wrapped around Eliot’s waist, his ass in Eliot’s large hands. Eliot walks them over to the sideboard, narrowly missing the bar set on top when he sits Quentin down and takes full advantage of the fact that their faces are on the same level now.

Quentin had forgotten that this is what it feels like kissing Eliot, to have every ounce of Eliot’s attention and skill focused on him, the way his head spins and his chest aches and he feels like a thousand volts of electricity is snapping across his skin.

He’s so alive it’s almost painful.

His ankles are still hooked behind Eliot’s back, their hard dicks rocking against one another as Quentin licks into Eliot’s mouth, swallowing a groan when Eliot tugs at his hair to force his head back and grant him better access to his neck.

“I don’t think they did this on _I Love Lucy_ ,” Eliot murmurs, kissing his way across Quentin’s jaw, sucking at that tender spot beneath his right ear.

“Their loss,” Quentin says back, gasping, raking his fingers through Eliot’s hair and fucking it up beyond all repair.

They’d probably fuck right there in the living room, scandalizing their neighbors and shattering the glassware stored on the shelves beneath them, but the room does that warp and pucker thing like it did when the monster stopped them from running away from the zombies in the warehouse.

And they find themselves sitting primly on either end of the couch.

“God _damnit_ ,” Eliot says, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “What, you stuck us in here together and expected us _not_ to bang at some point?”

“I don’t think it’s the act so much as the setting,” Quentin says, still a bit breathless. “Shows from this era wouldn’t even allow married couples to sleep in the same bed, so I think we’re pretty lucky we got as far as we did.”

“If you think that was getting lucky, just wait until we’re out of _Leave it to Beaver_ land.” Eliot’s voice is husky and full of promise, and it’s not helping in Quentin’s struggle to catch his breath, to make his circulation return to normal and stop flushing his cheeks and throbbing between his legs.

In black and white, Eliot looks even more like the classically handsome movie star he should be, his hair parted and slicked back, the contrast between his dark eyes and light skin heightened, his tie rakishly loose and crooked after Quentin had used it as a handle.

He pulls a cigarette out of a slim, silver case in his jacket pocket, lighting it with a matching Zippo.

Quentin watches his lips wrap around the filter, and he swears he can feel it in his dick. “I need a drink,” he says, shakily. “Do you need a drink?”

“Do you need to ask?”

Quentin goes to stand, but Eliot waves him back down. With the cigarette dangling between his lips, he shucks his jacket and rolls his sleeves up his forearms as he goes back to the bar they nearly massacred moments ago. He picks up the ice bucket and then looks at Quentin, bemused. “Darling? Where’s our kitchen?”

Quentin laughs, and so does the audience. “Right through that door.” He shakes his head. “Our lives are very weird right now.”

“Our lives have always been weird,” Eliot calls back over the sound of the freezer door opening and ice popping out of trays.

He returns to the couch with a couple of very cold, very dirty martinis, which even Eliot approves of after a tentative sip.

Quentin takes a big gulp. “So how is this possible? This is supposed to be 1960s America and we’re…” He trips over finishing that sentence, over saying the word _married_ to Eliot.

Eliot has no such qualms.

“No one at the office thought our marriage was strange at all. Apparently the monster is as tired as we are of seeing predictable, homophobic bullshit on TV.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

Quentin sips at his drink again, staring at Eliot, basking in the ability to do so. He’s just so relieved - no, it’s more than that - he’s overjoyed, he’s fucking _thrilled_ to have Eliot back at his side.

He tries to hide his stupid, enormous grin with the martini glass, so his mouth is brushing against the rim of the glass when he asks, “So, how did today start for you? Where’ve you been?”

“In my office. I have no idea what my job is, but I’ve got a big space in midtown with a framed picture of you holding a _baby_ on my desk. I was going to make up some excuse and come home to you, try to find out just how many people are going to be calling me ‘Daddy’ in this reality, but then Todd walked in.” Eliot laughs, a little wickedly. “Turns out he’s my _secretary_ , which is _fantastic;_ it’s like having like a tiny, idiotic clone that lives to cater to my every whim.”

Smiling, Eliot sips at his drink. “He brought me an Irish coffee and the latest water cooler gossip about Fogg and Bigby, who apparently run the firm or agency or whatever it is I work for, and then he just kept bringing me drinks. It seems that I have four Irish coffees every morning, which is an excellent practice that I should adopt in every reality, except that it meant that I was too drunk by lunchtime to get myself home.” 

He shrugs, stubbing out his cigarette and immediately lighting another one. “So I napped on the office couch until I sobered up, asked Todd for our address, and then had to figure out how to get here. I had to _read_ a _map_ , Q, and that is much harder than it sounds. It made me miss Benedict.” He inhales, the smoke curling out of his lips when he adds, “Oh, and a bunch of invisible assholes have been laughing at me all day.”

The invisible assholes laugh at this, too.

“Yeah, me too,” Quentin replies. “All I knew was that we were together at the old English ball, and I was just about to - well, do what we just did - and then I was suddenly in bed, in this little cookie cutter house with a wedding ring and a laugh track and a _kid_ —“ he gestures toward the nursery, where the baby is still blissfully asleep, “—and you were nowhere to be found.”

“I’m sorry. I had Todd call you, but he said there was no answer. When I asked if he left a voicemail he looked like a confused puppy that had peed in the corner. I guess answering machines don’t really exist yet.”

Quentin rubs at the back of his bare neck. “I must have been out on my walk, trying to find you. Fruitlessly, of course, but at least the little guy seemed to enjoy it.”

Eliot’s face softens as he gazes in the direction of the baby’s room. “In his picture, I thought he looked a little like—“

“I know.” Quentin slurps noisily at his drink, trying to drown out…something. Eliot’s train of thought, the baby’s existence, every single one of his own emotions - maybe all of it. All of it hurts.

“I think about him all the time,” Eliot murmurs.

Quentin blinks, surprised. “You do?”

Eliot takes a short, sharp pull on his cigarette, the paper crackling, ash threatening to drop on his crossed legs. “Of course I do,” he says, carefully looking anywhere but at Quentin. “That was my _life_ , Q. My family, my purpose, my _everything_. Of course I think about all of it.” He throws back the last of his drink, leans forward to tap his cigarette over the ashtray on the coffee table. “I was a husband, and a father - a real one, not like with Fray - and I got to do all of it with _you_. It was the most important thing I’ve ever done.” He laughs, in a choking, mirthless way. “Even if it wasn’t real.”

Eliot almost never makes emotional speeches like this; Quentin thinks it’s a damn shame. When he does, they’re raw and real and beautiful.

Quentin swallows, but his voice still cracks a bit when he answers, “It was real, El. It _is_ real, for us. It has to be.”

Quentin chugs the rest of his martini, needing the liquid courage to get right into the messy heart of what has been holding him back since they returned from the mosaic. “I kind of always thought you were with me because it was the only available option.”

Eliot looks like someone has slapped him, stunned and silent and still for one long second. He doesn’t even blink. The idea that Quentin has believed something so untrue and so _painful_ for a lifetime - _longer_ \- is terrible and ridiculous and absolutely unacceptable.

So when Eliot finally regains himself his motions are careful, controlled and deliberate as he sets down his cigarette and reaches one arm across the couch, lacing his fingers through Quentin’s and squeezing until he meets his eyes. He needs Quentin to do more than simply hear this; he needs him to believe it in his bones. “There were lots of people in Fillory, Q. And I could have always given up on the quest and come home. I had options. I chose you.” He squeezes his hand even harder, their interlocked knuckles bleaching white. “I will _always_ choose you.”

And the fragile, invisible, porcelain mask Quentin has been hiding behind for so long cracks in a thousand spiderwebbing lines, then shatters completely. He forgets that the hand Eliot’s not holding was still clenching the empty martini glass and it falls from his fingers, bouncing across the gray carpet and rolling under the table as he practically leaps across the couch.

Eliot pulls him in with eager hands, their lips meeting before Quentin has even stopped moving, laughing small and breathless against each other’s mouth as he finally gets settled in Eliot’s lap.  

Eliot tastes like mint and smoke and gin and _home._ Quentin wants to drink him in, to memorize the exact curve of his mouth and smell of his skin, to keep the knowledge of him stored in the deepest, most sacred and private parts of him, woven intrinsically and inseparably into the very fabric of who Quentin is. The smell of Eliot surrounds him, skin and spicy aftershave, and there’s warmth and stubble under his fingertips and he can feel Eliot’s hands, strong and firm and steady, pressing their bodies so tightly together.

Quentin’s eyes flutter open, just for a split second, and this close, Eliot is all he can see. His vision is filled with the pale gray of Eliot’s skin and the dark curls of his hair, and it looks as if he’s the only thing left in the entire world, or maybe that the whole world is made of Eliot.

Either way, Quentin would be just fine with it.

Eliot smiles against his mouth and shifts them, pushing Quentin down against the couch cushions—

And they find themselves monster-moved into the backyard, the sun sinking low on the horizon, a neighbor cheerfully waving to them over the white picket fence. The baby is now in Quentin’s arms and startling awake by the sudden move.

Eliot groans. “This monster is an epic cockblocker.”

There’s a small swing set in front of them, complete with a sandbox. Quentin, bouncing a bit to help soothe the baby, has an idea.

“How do you think it will feel about us getting drunk in a shared sandbox?”

Eliot heads in to get the bar set and Quentin gets the boy settled in. He squeezes his hammy little hands through the sand and giggles; the sound is music and joy, and Quentin’s heart hurts.

But maybe a bit less than before, a little less than he expected. Maybe his talk with Eliot has helped him let go of the pain of his memories a little, embrace more of the joy.

He hopes so. He wants to honor Teddy and Arielle’s memories; he wants to be able to reminisce with Eliot.

Someday.

For now, he’s happy to keep drinking martinis on this perfect, warm evening, playing in the sand, laughing at Eliot’s impression of Margo in Ibiza, and lazily discussing some of the weirder aspects of Fillorian politics.

After they’ve had a drink or two too many, and the ice bucket has been converted into a tool to help construct a sand castle that in no way resembles Whitespire, they stretch out beside each other to stare up at the twinkling stars and crescent moon glowing above them. Quentin’s head is resting on Eliot’s shoulder and the baby is dozing on Eliot’s chest.

“What are we going to do, El?” Quentin talks in a quiet murmur, his voice a soft rumble that won’t wake the baby. “We’re stuck in this ridiculous TV show scenario, maybe forever. How do we move forward from here?”

Eliot hums a bit and turns his head until his lips brush against Quentin’s forehead, warm and feathery and pressing absent kisses between words, “Do you remember that fight we had at the mosaic?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific. We had a _lot_ of fights at the mosaic.”

“The one where I told you that if you wanted to live your life, you should do it there.”

In answer, Quentin just nods, his cheek sliding roughly against the starched cotton of Eliot’s shirt.

“Well, I think that same advice still applies.”

“It was good advice. It’s what brought us Arielle and Teddy.”

Quentin is proud of himself; he says their names with only the slightest hesitation.

Eliot clears his throat and Quentin can feel him tense up a bit, nervous. “Well, I don’t think that kind of polyamorous family scenario would work again, since you and I are the only constant, real things here.”

Quentin suddenly realizes, in a shocking, magnitudinous sort of perspective shift, that maybe Eliot was just as nervous about his feelings as Quentin was.

And that’s just _absurd_.

So Quentin props himself up on an elbow, looking down at Eliot in the faded silver light, and holds his cheek in his warm, soft palm. “You’re enough for me, El. You’ll always be enough.”

He doesn’t see Eliot’s answering smile, but he can feel it against his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good”


	5. Salute

They spend three days in the sitcom, Quentin playing the house husband with the laugh track and baby for company. (They nickname the baby Merlin as a reminder that he’s made of nothing but magic, and it helps, sort of. Lessens the pain, keeps either of them from growing too attached - Quentin even finds himself _enjoying_ having a child around again.)

Eliot gets up early every morning and dresses in suits of varying shades of gray, with crisp white shirts and skinny ties, and then goes off to the office to do fuck-all except drinking and tormenting Todd for a solid eight hours every day.

He kind of loves it.

The first day he sends Todd all around the city with a list of albums and wine vintages to track down - by five o’clock Eliot’s briefcase is filled with nothing but vinyl and Pinot.

In the evening, he sings along with the record player as he cooks dinner in a long white apron, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, Quentin fascinated by the way the muscles in his forearms move, the elegance of his wrists, the outline of the tendons in his hands as he chops and whisks and stirs.

They get thoroughly toasted on the wine over dinner and Quentin does the dishes after, leaving them still a little sudsy and stacked haphazardly in the drying rack because Eliot comes up behind him and loops his arms around his waist, singing softly in his ear and drawing him out to the living room to sway around to the records and drink the good scotch.

The light is low and soft, blurring out the distinctions between shades of gray. “I wish I could see the color of your eyes,” Quentin whispers, the words like a prayer for freedom pushed into the solid muscle of Eliot’s chest.

Eliot combs back Quentin’s messy hair, tucking Q’s head beneath his chin so Quentin feels the words through the movement of Eliot’s jaw as much as he hears them. “My eyes are dark even in our world, so this isn’t all that different.”

Quentin’s fingers clench around Eliot’s waist, like he can push the imprint of his fingertips into Eliot’s flesh, claim it as uniquely his alone. He’s half choking on sudden anger at the injustice of their predicament. “The specifics matter to me,” he grinds out between his teeth.

Eliot murmurs nonsense in his ear, low and soft, trying to talk him off the ledge while simultaneously educating Quentin on jazz - he’s really only listened to alternative music - and before long the tension slides from Quentin’s shoulders without him really even noticing.

Eliot keeps talking anyway, eventually shifting into crooning each song softly while slow-dancing Quentin across the living room, and with each new track Quentin decides then and there that it’s his new all-time favorite song.

They let the rest of the record play as Eliot lays him down on the gray carpet and kisses as much of him as the monster will allow. Quentin’s awkward about it at first, knowing that _thing_ is out there watching them, but not enough to stop. They go slow enough that the record reaches the end, the needle making a repetitive fuzzy scratching sound, before they’re bounced into the bathroom, standing side-by-side, toothbrushes in hand.

They stretch out in their twin beds minutes later, turning out the light before Eliot whispers filthy things to him in the dark hush.

(What they don’t say - are too nervous and terrified to ever actually _say -_ is that neither of them have ever felt so settled, so warm and whole and grounded to the earth. Which is ridiculous, because they have no idea if they’re even still _on_ Earth, but the feeling remains. Domestic bliss, or as close to it as they’re ever likely to be, growing roots out of their deepest, darkest parts and tangling them together, binding their lives.) 

* * *

The next night, they leave the fake baby with their fake neighbor and take their enormous car to the drive-in to see _Beach Blanket Bingo_. They get a giant tub of buttery popcorn and a couple of Cokes that they generously spike with rum, and by the time the movie starts they’re tipsy and making out, taking full advantage of the car’s bench seat, and don’t see a second of the stupid movie anyway.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that neither of them dies from spontaneous combustion or a heretofore-unknown-to-be-lethal case of _epic_ blue balls. By the time they go to their separate beds that night, Quentin no longer gives even the tiniest of shits about the fact that the monster is watching them. He just _wants_ Eliot, wants him in his muscles and teeth and fingernails, wants him in a way that burns and tears and consumes, that defies all logic and sanity. When he dreams it’s of flesh and flames, of lava flows and tidal waves and enormous beds piled high with thick, pristine white blankets.

* * *

At 10:45 on the third morning, Eliot’s reclining on his office sofa, finishing his second Irish coffee and making Todd give him a pedicure when reality finally shifts.

It’s gone from day to night, the only light coming from a few lanterns hanging from the roof of the large tent he’s found himself in, an enormous mosquito circling one of them. Still, the low light is enough to show him that color is back, and it feels shockingly vibrant after so much time in grayscale. The blood red of the polish on Margo’s toes, wiggling up at him from where she’s propped them across his knees. The deep green of the fatigues everyone is wearing, the black of their boots, the dirt-spattered canvas walls of the enormous tent around them, the startling blue of Alice’s eyes when they flick up at him from across the cheap, wobbly table they’re seated around.

It’s built to seat at least ten people, but right now it’s just him, Margo draped across the chair beside him with her feet in his lap, and Alice perched on the opposite side with the gun she is meticulously cleaning, the pieces spread before her in precise, perfect alignment.

Through the tent’s mesh windows he can see the camp stretching far in the distance, a literal city of tents, the thick jungle a wall of dark green far beyond it. Behind him, a fortified perimeter, and then, oddly, the ocean, waves slapping against the sand like soldiers in a rhythmic march. It’s an encampment on a tropical island, or at least next to a coastline, the air smelling of salt and sweat and fish.

Margo sighs, dramatically, cleaning her fingernails with the point of an enormous black combat knife. Josh is stretched across the tent floor with his eyes closed, a joint dangling from his lip. Penny is on the other side of them doing pushups, scowling at the ground beneath him in a way that makes Eliot think Penny believes that the strain in his arms is punishing the Earth itself.

So, this is some sort of military propaganda parading as entertainment, then. Eliot’s having a hard time thinking of a TV show that he’d hate more than this - _Ice Road Truckers,_ maybe - but then he realizes that it doesn’t matter.

He’s out of the sitcom. He’s in color.

He can _fuck._

Eliot tosses back the last of the whiskey in the tin mug in front of him and grins. “Anybody know where I can find Quentin?”

“Right here,” his favorite voice answers as the tent flap raises just enough for Quentin to duck through. He’s in the same green fatigues as everyone else, and his hair is buzzed short in the regulation style - which gives Eliot a terrible idea. He reaches up and runs his hand over his own head, the feel of the short strands making him whimper.

“Now you know how I feel when the monster keeps fucking with my hair,” Quentin says, bitter but with a sympathetic grimace.

In the distance, a loud boom, one that sets the lanterns swinging a bit, and both Eliot and Quentin jump. Explosions would be surprising at any time, but it’s especially jarring after their quiet little sitcom lives.

But no one else even bats an eye. Apparently, they’re located fairly close to the warfront and this is just typical background noise.

Great.

Eliot can see Quentin starting to stress about it, the way his eyes dart around, the way his fingers start to fidget, and he’s not going to allow it.

He’s got far better things to do.

“No one follow us,” Eliot says, lifting Margo’s feet and standing in one smooth motion, completely ignoring her pout when he sets them down in his empty chair.

He pulls Quentin in for a kiss, one demanding hand on the back of his head, the other grabbing his ass.

Penny makes a retching sound like he’s on the verge of vomiting.

It just spurs Quentin on; he smiles against Eliot’s mouth, enthusiastically giving as good as he gets.

* * *

Eliot's got no fucking clue how they make it back to their tent. 

He vaguely remembers Julia driving by in a stripped-down Jeep and offering them a ride across the camp, and he hopes to hell that Quentin was able to keep it together enough to maintain at least the minimum of social niceties with the poor woman, because all Eliot remembers is bouncing over the muddy dirt road in the backseat, the sharp taste of Quentin’s neck on his tongue and the pressure of his hand rubbing dangerously high over his thigh. 

He also remembers hopping out and still having to weave through seemingly endless rows of identical canvas tents, all of them large enough to sleep four and allow even Eliot to stand upright inside, the two of them stumbling over a few ground stakes and getting tangled in support ropes because apparently they live in the one furthest from the mess hall, an arrangement he would have  _never_ agreed to if he'd had any input into the monster’s design.

He’s horny and half-drunk and so is Quentin, judging by the hardness grinding against him and the taste of beer on his tongue. It’s making them so sloppy that Eliot thinks he’s not going to make it, that he's just going to bend Quentin over right here in this tent maze and fuck him blind, when they're finally, _finally_ at what they somehow know is their tent.

Quentin slips his hand under the hem of Eliot's t-shirt and runs his tongue along the inside of his upper lip as he backs him into the tied-shut flap, his back pushing into the rough canvas. Quentin reaches around Eliot’s back and grasps the door flap’s strings, pulling one slowly as he sharply drags his teeth over Eliot's bottom lip. Eliot groans into Quentin's mouth and tries to weave his fingers through Quentin’s hair before remembering that it’s all gone.

He’s so preoccupied that he doesn't notice Quentin fumbling with the second tie behind his back until the flap gives way and Eliot tumbles backwards into the tent, nearly falling on his ass with a surprised, “Jesus, Q, what the hell?” 

But that's as much bitching as he gets out before Quentin ties the door shut behind them and yanks his shirt over his head, silver dog tags swinging over the first golden flush of a tan that’s beginning to creep over his skin and the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his pants, the sight delicious enough to shut Eliot up. 

He's seen Quentin half-naked before, of course, but it’s been so long since they were _young_ and together and even then, it was never quite like this. Not with the weight and depth of an entire lifetime behind it, not where there’s no quest or mosaic or magic to distract them, where he can take his time to touch and taste, explore every perfect inch with his mouth, try to make Quentin desperate and pleading for him. Eliot feels like a kid on Christmas morning, staring in awe at some greatly-desired new toy sitting under the tree. 

He smiles when Quentin shoves him into the canvas wall hard enough that the whole tent shakes, their teeth knocking together for a second before Quentin turns his face, sucking Eliot's earlobe between his lips as he grinds their hips together. Eliot can feel him, hard and slotted alongside Eliot's own length while his panting breath blows across Eliot's ear, and it's so hot that he's pretty sure he could get off from this alone. 

Quentin rucks Eliot's army green shirt up around his ribs, pulling away just long enough to tug it over Eliot's head. Eliot groans, even a momentary separation making him so frustrated that he's trying to touch Quentin everywhere, immediately, needing more of him than he can ever get. 

He scratches his blunt nails down Quentin's chest and over his nipples, Quentin moaning and squeezing his eyes shut as Eliot nips at his collarbone and licks a hot line over the bend of his neck. Every touch is like an electrical charge that shoots straight to Eliot's dick, throbbing and straining at his pants as he rubs against Quentin. 

It's too much; it's not enough. 

He grabs Quentin by the hips and spins, shoving him into the wall and taking over. He can feel Quentin's pulse jumping in his neck as he drags his tongue across it, reaching down to pop the button of Quentin’s pants. He tugs the zipper down, the sounds strangely loud in the quiet tent, skimming his knuckles over the bulge beneath Quentin's fly. Eliot's hand is shaking a bit when he slips a thumb under the slit in his underwear, Quentin hissing at the contact. 

Eliot pulls back just far enough that he can lock eyes with Quentin –  _holy fucking shit those are some damn good genetics_  – and he hooks his thumbs into his waistband, peeling Quentin's fatigues and underwear down his legs in one long pull. Quentin doesn't look away as he tries to kick them off, but they catch on his boots. He groans and bends over, pale ass waving deliciously in the humid air as he works to undo the laces, toeing the boots off along with his pants, the clothing tumbling across the tent’s taut canvas floor.

The lanterns hanging from the ceiling are turned down low, but there are mesh panels in the upper portion of the tent that serve as windows and the pale light of a full moon streams in, bright enough for Eliot to be able to take in Quentin – all of Quentin, of the young, hard, vibrant version of him – for the first time in what feels like ages. Eliot's pupils blow even wider, hungry and horny as he wraps his hand around the velvety soft skin of Quentin's dick and thumbs at the head, hard and pink and perfect. 

Quentin drops his head back against the wall and closes his eyes because looking at Eliot, seeing him  _wanting_ Quentin, the way Eliot's biting at his lip and groaning as he strokes him, is almost enough to make him come right then. 

“Eliot, oh, fuck, _Eliot_...” 

Eliot's never heard anything better than his name on Quentin's tongue, raw and begging. 

He drops to his knees, worshipful before Quentin’s body, ghosting his fingertips along the dip of his hipbones and licking the brine of his skin, the hot and humid air around them like a lover’s caress, making sweat roll down the knobs of his spine. Quentin’s gasping, rhythmic breath is like the distant waves crashing on the shore, eroding their defenses and building toward something new at the same time. 

Eliot presses a kiss to Quentin’s hip, the action punctuated by the angry staccato of scattered gunshots off in the distance. But Eliot ignores it without a second thought.

* * *

Quentin is hard, throbbing and desperate, and when Eliot finally wraps his hot mouth around him he nearly comes just from the relief of having someone touch him this way. It's been so long, the immeasurable terrifying time of the monster’s televised trap and the months of questing before it, the years after he and Eliot had become too elderly to get up to much of anything beyond a cuddle and arthritic hand job. 

But this, with Eliot - even in this virtual prison - this is freedom. And vulnerability. And sheer joy. 

Because all he has to be is Quentin – flawed, scared, stubborn Quentin – and they will still end up exactly here, with Eliot on his knees before him, bringing him pleasure like this is something that he deserves, something that he's earned. 

Quentin runs his hands through the buzzed hair above Eliot's ears – he misses the curls but is sort of fascinated by the change - and scrapes his blunt nails over the scalp, groaning when Eliot hums with satisfaction at his touch.

Quentin has never had anything like this. There's never been anything beyond the odd short-term girlfriend and soulless one night stands, or the way he’d always felt at the mosaic, in love with both Arielle and Eliot but so restrained, holding back that last piece of his heart, the one that believed that, given a choice, Eliot would _never_ be with _him._ He's wholly unprepared for the emotions crashing through him. 

Because there's one thing he knows for certain – whatever love is, this is it. He's in love with Eliot Waugh. And he'll give anything, do anything, _be_ anything the monster wants in order to keep it. 

* * *

Eliot can feel the tension building in Quentin's muscles, the trembling in his thighs as he strains to hold himself upright while the orgasm builds. Eliot digs his fingers into the flesh over Quentin's hips and pushes back, pinning him to the tent wall and helping to support him while his mouth moves, furiously fast and tight around Quentin's cock. 

Quentin's head has been leaned back against the wall, his eyes screwed shut, but he can feel the pressure twisting impossibly tight and low in his gut, his breath uneven and gasping. He finally lets himself look down, get lost in those dark eyes staring up at him, and watch Eliot's full, shiny mouth as it flies, deep and skillful. 

And that's it, the sight more than enough to send Quentin crashing over the edge, Eliot's movements stilling as he concentrates on sucking him down, holding him upright. 

Quentin is shaking, laughing softly at the pure pleasure as Eliot pulls his mouth off with a pop and brushes a final, chaste kiss over Quentin's hipbone. Quentin grabs his face and practically drags him up until Eliot's standing, Quentin tasting his own saltiness as he kisses him, long and hard and grateful. 

Eliot smiles against his lips, resting his hands loosely at Quentin's waist. He's trying to breathe, to calm himself down a bit because he doesn't really expect anything except a panting “thank you” and for Quentin to need a few minutes before (hopefully) doing something about the way Eliot's cock is still straining painfully against his fatigues. 

Instead, Quentin shoves him with more force than Eliot knew he had, pushing him roughly back until he's sprawled sideways across the nearest cot with Quentin pressing down on top of him. Quentin's fingers are nimble as they work open Eliot's pants, popping the button of his fly and unzipping, then twisting and lifting until they're both naked with Quentin straddling Eliot's waist, his hands wrapped around both of Eliot's wrists and pinning them to the mattress. 

And even though it surprises him every time, Eliot remembers this, Quentin’s periodic bouts of dominance. He even gets it, at least a little. Quentin has never had power - even as a magician, he was middling at best - and this is the only space where he can exercise it, feel that rush of being in control.He can take Eliot apart and leave him ragged and begging, make him cry out for Quentin. 

So he does. 

Quentin drags his hands down Eliot's arms, the brush of his fingers tickling at the sensitive skin on the underside before he works his way achingly slowly down Eliot's chest. He swirls his tongue over each dusty pink nipple, smiling when it makes Eliot whimper, keeping it up until his back arches off the bed. Quentin lets the movement take his mouth to Eliot's ribcage, grazing his teeth over the edge of the bone and feeling Eliot's skin jumping under his hands before sliding down to the ridge of Eliot's hip, sucking a purple mark there as Eliot slams his head back into the thin pillow in frustration. 

Every time Eliot tries to touch him, Quentin stops and grabs his wrists again, growling in his ear. 

“Just let me have my way with you, Eliot.” 

It's so hot that Eliot grabs for him twice more just to hear it again. 

But then Quentin finally makes his way below Eliot's waist. He licks the crease at the top of Eliot's thigh, scratches lightly over the hair on the inside of his legs. His face disappears and Eliot can feel his breath blowing hot behind his balls for a moment before Quentin drags his tongue in one long, flat line over them and up the vein running along the underside of Eliot's cock. He's so hard that it's almost painful. 

“Fuck, Q, that's so fucking good,” Eliot grinds out from between clenched teeth, his hands twisting in the sheet. 

And when Quentin wraps his lips around him, taking him in a centimeter at a time, tortuously slowly, all Eliot can think about is wet and heat and  _Quentin_ and it's nearly enough to send him spiraling off the edge right then. 

Quentin can sense it, read it in the pant of Eliot's breath, the tightening of his balls. So he moves away, sliding over the foot of the bed and rustling in the camouflage duffel bag stored beneath the cot. And just when Eliot is about to start legitimately whining like a little bitch, Quentin reappears with a small bottle of lube in his hand. He tosses it to Eliot, crawls back up the cot over him. And when Eliot doesn't do anything other than lying there and staring at the bottle stupidly, Quentin takes it from him, clicking open the top and spreading the cool liquid over Eliot's fingers. 

Eliot stares at his glistening hand in the moonlight, aching and desperate but suddenly a little nervous. He's done this before, of course, and he's not worried about the mechanics – it's just that, as cliché as it sounds, it's never actually  _meant_ this much before. 

They’ve admitted to feelings now - real, messy, complicated _feelings_ rooted in the deepest, darkest, most private and sacred parts of themselves. This isn’t a quest, or something convenient, or a friendship with benefits.

So, this time? He’s pretty sure it’ll mean everything. 

Eliot needs a second to weigh the magnitude of it all, so he says the first stupid thing that pops into his head. 

“How did you know where to find the lube?” 

Quentin stretches out face-down on top of Eliot’s chest, propping his chin on his folded arms and smirking.

“Same way I knew where to find you and which tent was ours - _magic_. Now do you want to keep talking about my weird, monster-given knowledge or do you want to fuck me already?" 

And the combination of Quentin's filthy mouth and tight, perfect ass is enough to end Eliot's moment of hesitation. He rolls them onto their sides, his lips grazing over Quentin's shoulder as he reaches down and traces one finger, lightly, in small circles around Quentin's ass. Quentin hums, content as Eliot strokes and dips just the tiniest bit inside before coming back out, making sure that everything gets wet, that Quentin is perfectly relaxed. 

Quentin keeps his face toward Eliot the whole time, his burning gaze memorizing every tiny twitch of Eliot's features - his joy when he fully realizes what they’re finally free to do, the care that he takes to make sure that Quentin is ready, the fiery lust when he feels his finger disappear inside Quentin's heat. 

Eliot moves his hand so slowly – just one finger at first, working smoothly in and out, easing them both into this. But Quentin can't take it, sighing impatiently and grinding out a frustrated, “ _Eliot._ ” 

He squirms and reaches for Eliot's twitching dick but Eliot slaps his hand away, sliding in a second finger as he whispers in Quentin's ear, “It's my turn. Just let me have my way with you.” 

Quentin groans as Eliot slides over his prostate, his gaze turning feral and hungry when Eliot starts to scissor his fingers, working him more and more open. And by the time he's added a third, twisting his wrist as he spins his fingers deep within Quentin, they're both panting and desperate. But Eliot doesn't do more, wouldn't do more, until Quentin finally cries out and flips them on the narrow cot, shifting positions until he’s able to shove Eliot onto his back, crawling up his body so Quentin can sink down onto Eliot's cock. 

Both their breathing is ragged as Quentin slowly bottoms out, Eliot so lost in that tight, wet heat that he can't even move, the sloping roof of the tent blurring before his eyes. 

 _Q Q Q Q holy fucking shit damn Quentin—_  

Quentin takes a moment to adjust, savoring the stretch inside him before he begins to move, slowly fucking himself onto Eliot. He leans back and braces himself, his hands even with Eliot's knees as he raises himself. Eliot's mouth falls open, his face filled with such overwhelming pleasure and wonder that Quentin can't look away, doesn't dare to blink, moaning as he lowers himself back down. 

After a minute, Eliot's able to catch his breath and finally remember that he's supposed to be an active participant here. He reaches up, dragging his palms, calloused from training and battles that he doesn’t remember, down Quentin's chest and stroking over his cock, come pearling at the tip and making his fingers sticky when he grips Quentin's hips to help him move. Eliot still can't really focus; his hands and attention moving schizophrenically over Quentin, and the only thing he can think about is how Quentin riding him, having Quentin above and surrounding him, is even better than Eliot remembers. 

The sonic waves of a series of explosions, closer than before, make the tent tremble around them. There’s scattered gunfire and a few short, sharp shouts from the front lines; a truck roars down the dirt road that runs through the center of the camp.

But Quentin just leans forward, wrapping his fingers around the frame of the cot above Eliot’s head, bracing himself so he can pick up his pace. Both their mouths fall open, gasping in the warm air. 

The tent walls bow a bit in the tropical breeze coming through the windows, snaking between the tied door flaps, the room filled with the sounds of slapping skin, panting breath, and the distant crash of waves on the shore. 

And then Quentin shifts the angle slightly and neither of them can notice anything except the sweaty slick of each other's skin under their hands, the weight of Quentin sinking into Eliot over and over in ever shorter and faster strokes as the tension builds, a painful pleasure pulsing through their veins, Quentin's name falling from Eliot's lips like some sort of holy chant. 

“Quentin, Quentin, fuck, Quentin, I'm so close, Quentin-” 

Quentin pants and moves even faster, his muscles trembling as he calls, “Yes, El, come for me, it’s so good—” 

Eliot arches off the bed with a strangled cry, rolling his hips into Quentin and coming so hard that it feels like the orgasm is punched out of the very depths of him, leaving him gasping and weak and shaking. 

Quentin is so tense, perched right on the edge, and it only takes a few strokes of Eliot's shaking hand before he's coming too, painting their bodies in messy white stripes. Lights dance at the edges of his vision and he can feel himself shattering and reforming into something new, something amazing. 

They lock eyes as Quentin slides forward, pressing his mouth softly to Eliot’s—

And the world falls apart around them.

Gunfire pierces the air, so rapid and from so many directions that it sounds like one endless crack, as if the earth and sky have been torn in two. Explosions light up the night sky, rumbling the ground beneath them and setting the lanterns swaying, burning orange and black shadows rocketing across the tent. 

There’s shouting and screaming sirens and boots pounding through the mud and they should be getting dressed, tugging on fatigues and hurriedly lacing up combat boots. They should be reaching for the guns stowed in the locker at the foot of the cot and rushing out of the tent.

They should be joining the fight.

Instead, the two of them curl around one another like lazy, contented cats on the cramped cot, and let this fake world burn down around them.

’Til death do they part.

* * *

Back in their actual world, the _real_ world, Isaac the Uber Driver - who is utterly unaware that he is a magician and, more importantly, a naturalist - decides to start a small side business.

And, because he’s actually Josh Hoberman and some things just can’t be erased, no matter how strong the magic, it only seems right that the business involves growing and selling marijuana.

He pots his first plants that night, humming some stupid pop song to himself as he pushes the seeds into the rich, black dirt and deciding that he’ll call this batch Revelatory Ride.

Because he wants it to help people escape themselves, to give them enlightenment, to peel back the curtain of lies shrouding the world around them.

Isaac wills his pot to reveal buried truths.


	6. Channel Surfing

Days blur and grow hazy like a book dropped into a bathtub, the ink running and the pages dissolving into an indistinguishable pulpy mass.

Quentin tries to hold it together, he really does. But the reality jumps stay unpredictably random - they’ll spend weeks in one place and only hours in others - so there’s no way to develop a routine or become comfortable.

And it Just. Never. Stops.

The world swirls around them like an ever-turning kaleidoscope, and the only constant, the only thing they can cling to, is one another.

And slowly, in fits and starts, Quentin feels like he’s beginning to lose his grip, to believe that perhaps his life has always been like this, that Brakebills and Fillory and his entire childhood are nothing more than the faded remnants of backstory he was assigned when he was put in this endless shitshow, flat and easy to forget as time marches punishingly onward.

They cycle through comedies and dramas and reality shows and game shows, things that Quentin fanboys over and ones neither of them have ever even heard of. They’re in a thousand different costumes and haircuts; they get implanted with different memories and accents and bits of relevant information. They’re in cities and deserts and tropical islands; they’ve been on nearly every continent a dozen times over.

There are days where they speak Spanish in telenovelas, Hindi in Indian soap operas, Korean in K-dramas. They understand it when they’re in it, but don’t remember a word after they’ve moved on. Quentin’s brain is beginning to feel like the Silly Putty he played with when he was a small kid, pressing it over newspaper print and looking at the transferred ink, trying to read the backwards words for half a second before squishing it into a ball and doing it all over again.

But here’s the hardest thing to come to terms with - as confusing and exhausting as this life can be, _it doesn’t suck_.

It should - they’ve had their agency and freedom stripped away, been reduced to monkeys dancing for a monster’s entertainment. But they’re together, and mostly having fun, and it just feels like a very long, very strange vacation most of the time.

Most of the time.

* * *

Quentin is bored and exhausted - they spent the previous four days in an episode of _Queer Eye_ and are now in some sort of baking competition, because the monster apparently likes Eliot better - so he hops up on the counter and sighs. He’s got flour on his cheek and so much of his hair has fallen out of his ponytail, hanging in pieces around his face, that he’s not sure whether it’s more up or down at this point.

He looks down at the top of Eliot’s head where it’s bent over the table, working on sculpting tiny flowers out of fondant. Quentin stares at those familiar, perfect curls, and those elegant fingers, and he feels twitchy and cranky and _annoyed_.

He hadn’t even gotten to be one of the Fab Five on _Queer Eye_ ; he’d been a production assistant that went on an obscene number of coffee runs. And now he’s sitting here, in a lavender apron that matches Eliot’s, and they’re surrounded by fake versions of their friends who are teamed up and working in their separate cook stations, and everyone is taking it all so fucking _seriously._

Quentin just really wants to eat a cupcake and start some shit. 

So he grabs a spare cupcake from the cooling rack and takes an enormous bite, crumbs falling into his lap and spewing across the stainless steel table as he chews. Eliot has finished with the fondant flower and is now piping icing onto a lemon and elderflower cupcake, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration, when he notices what’s happening.

“Damn it, Q, those aren’t for eating! They’re my contingency plan. What if something happens to one of these?”

And there’s something in the tone of Eliot’s voice, simmering just beneath the surface, that catches Margo’s attention. She’s seated at the judges’ table, dripping fame and money from the sleek curtain of her dark, glossy hair to the gleam of her gel pedicure. She had been surveying the contestants with detached boredom, but she zeroes in on Quentin and Eliot now.

She’s a shark, after all. She can smell blood in the water. 

“Yeah, El, what if something does happen?” Quentin taunts. “Something like—“ he looks around for a moment, then sticks his hand into the open flour canister, scooping some into his palm, “—this?” He flicks it directly at Eliot’s face; flour catches on his eyebrows and cheekbones; it drifts like snow onto the cupcake’s meticulously decorated frosting and the delicately spun sugar sculpture that goes on top. 

“ _What. Did. You. Just. Do._ ”

Eliot’s glaring at him and it feels _good_ , it feels real and raw and unscripted in a way that they haven’t been allowed to be for a while. “Come at me, Waugh,” Quentin says, and claps his flour covered hands together, a white cloud puffing over everything.

Eliot grabs at his wrist to keep him from making it worse, but Quentin twists and jerks, accidentally hitting the icing bag in Eliot’s other hand and squishing the side, sending a fat stream of lemon icing shooting across Eliot’s face.

The world freezes for a moment, Eliot’s mouth falling open in shock, Quentin staring at him and trying to repress a smile. One of the other contestants giggles - Julia, Quentin thinks, recognizing the sound.

And then Kady joins in, lobbing a handful of cake batter over the divider wall at the side of Penny’s head, and it’s _on_. Eliot gets a dozen eggs out of the fridge and starts throwing them as fast as he can against Quentin’s chest, and Penny temporarily ignores Kady’s attack in order to dump an entire sack of powdered sugar over Quentin’s head.

Josh is laughing but still working on his weirdly perfect cupcake, plating it and dropping it off in front of Margo with a flourishing bow before taking a spoonful of freshly whipped cream and flicking it directly into Julia’s face.

After that it becomes impossible to keep track of who’s throwing what - the entire kitchen becomes a war zone of ingredients, flour and milk forming a paste in everyone’s hair, eggshells crunching under their feet, fine sugar seeming to hang like dust motes under the bright lights. Everyone is laughing and shrieking and fighting not to slip in the mess on the floor.

Eliot puts an entire stick of cold butter down the back of Quentin’s shirt, snickering and darting away when Quentin comes for retribution with a hand mixer covered in batter and turned on high.

Someone should have been paying attention to Alice, who has remained suspiciously on the edge of the fray. If they had, they’d have seen her dumping a five-pound bag of flour into an enormous square of cheesecloth, tying it loosely with twine, and climbing onto a table. She waits until just the right moment, when everyone is dripping and distracted and gathered together, and then drops the flour bomb right into the center of the chaos.

It explodes on impact with the floor, all that flour flying and sticking to everything it touches, including the milk and eggs and batter already coating everyone’s skin and clothes. In a single second, everyone except Alice is covered in flour head-to-toe, pale and dusty.

It reminds Quentin of what the fairies looked like and he misses Fillory suddenly and deeply, a sharp blade driven right into his marrow.

But then Eliot starts laughing, deep and loud and true, the flour mask on his face cracking with the movement. And Quentin forces Fillory and their old lives back into the dark recesses of his mind. He made a bargain that he was going to try to live in _this_ life.

So he laughs back, and kisses a little of the floury cake batter off Eliot’s face.

Josh should win the competition by default of being the only one to actually submit a cupcake (and it must actually be good because Margo eats the whole thing, her lipstick still perfectly in place when she finishes). But Margo has never been one to reward coloring inside the lines, and besides - she’s looking at Alice like she’s tastier than any cupcake.

“Alice wins this round,” she declares with a wink, “through supreme battle tactics and badass engineering ingenuity.”

Alice blushes with pleasure, and Josh applauds her graciously.

And later, after the lights have been turned down and everyone else has gone to clean themselves up, Eliot and Quentin sit on the floor, backs against the still-warm door of their oven, squeezing icing directly from the bag onto their tongues.

“I’m sorry I ruined the competition for you, El. I guess I took the whole _Cake_ _Wars_ thing a little too literally. Did I get icing in your eye?”

Eliot squeezes another dollop of vanilla icing into his mouth, his tongue flicking out to catch the last bit of it from the tip of the bag. “It’s fine,” he says. He looks at Quentin sideways, his lips quirking up at the corners. “It’s hardly the first time you’ve squirted me with a sticky white substance.”

* * *

“Your Honor, I object!” Quentin stands so quickly that the stack of papers in front of him lists to the side, the top few sheets fluttering to the courtroom’s polished parquet floor. 

Eliot, reclining in the Judge’s seat with his feet propped up on the podium, smiles down at him.

“On what grounds?”

Quentin blows a few loose strands of hair out of his face and looks around at the blank faces of the plaintiff, defendant, and jury. “…general boredom and stupidity?”

“Sustained.” Eliot bangs his gavel and stands, smoothing his black robe. “I’ll need to see you in my chambers, Counselor. Privately.”

* * *

“No. No, no, no, no, _no_. I am not built for any of this,” Eliot says, spreading his long arms wide, gesturing to everything. “Not the bugs, or the heat, or the dirt, or the sweat, or the snakes. It’s like a tropical version of Indiana, just with less country music and I want nothing to do with any of it.”

Quentin, wearing nothing but cargo shorts, aqua shoes, and a bandana around his forehead, scoops a handful of mushy rice into his face and nods sympathetically. “ _Survivor_ wouldn’t have been on my choice of TV shows to live through, either.”

And there’s literally nothing to do except bicker with the other contestants, or sit on the beach and listen to the hum of mosquitoes, the birds calling to one another in the treetops, and the crash of the sea against the shore.

Eliot curls his toes over and over, digging holes into the hot, loose dune until he reaches the cool, damp sand compacted beneath.  

They’re both sunburned and itchy and utterly miserable.

And they’re stuck there for two whole weeks.

* * *

Unfortunately, the monster decides to go on a reality show kick. They become ghost hunters and home renovators, moonshiners and pawn shop owners. They’re contestants on _Jeopardy!_ and _Match_ _Game_ and _The Price is Right_.

They compete on _The Voice,_ where Eliot places third, and then, much to equal measures of Quentin’s mortification and Eliot’s delight, _Dancing with the Stars_. Quentin trips over his own feet and is eliminated the very first episode, but Eliot actually makes it all the way to the finale, foxtrotting with Margo in matching sequined costumes while Quentin cheers them on from backstage.

And then, the worst thing happens.

“No. Absolutely not.” Quentin shakes his head, his lips pressed into a hard line.

He’s in tiny gym shorts, his hair twisted back into a bun - and he’s staring down an extreme, Ninja-Warrior-style obstacle course, pools of water glistening beneath every terrifying obstacle.

“Oh, yes,” Eliot says, evil and gleeful, from the sidelines. 

“I failed Phys. Ed., El. I _cannot_ do this.”

A horn sounds, signaling the start of Quentin’s run.

“Looks like you’re going to have to at least try.”

And so Quentin, narrow shoulders sagging and a look of utter horror on his face, leaps onto the first in a series of slanted platforms. It wobbles under his weight and his shoes are slipping, but he hooks his fingers around the top ledge and wills himself to stay on.

The crowd sits in risers to his left, cheering and holding signs that declare him the Melancholy Ninja, and a voiceover narrator says that he’s raising awareness for mental health programs with his run.

And suddenly, he’s feeling a bit more inspired.

Which is stupid, because this isn’t real. But if it was - well, he’d have fallen on his face long before he made it to the starting line, but still - he’d care. He’d want people that struggle like he does to feel motivated and less alone and all that other cat-hanging-from-a-branch-motivational-poster bullshit.

And that really is Eliot down there, wearing a Melancholy Ninja gray t-shirt and cheering him on, with fake versions of Julia and Alice at his side.

So, somehow, miraculously, Quentin makes it through the first obstacle, leaping from the final platform to the rope and then swinging into safety.

He falls in spectacular fashion on the second obstacle, his body too short and light and uncoordinated to make the long leap from the trampoline to the zip line. But he makes sure to hit the water hard enough that he splashes Eliot, who is swiping water out of his eyes when he meets Quentin at the edge, grabbing his face and kissing him big and sloppy.

And Quentin, in a surprising burst of strength, hauls Eliot over the ledge and into the pool with him, dunking him under, laughing free and loud and not melancholy at all.  

* * *

“ _It won’t let me take the hat off_ ,” Eliot hisses, tugging futilely at the brim of an old, stained trucker hat.

“I know.”

“And I’m wearing flannel? And Carhartt? And trapped in the cab of a big rig? I AM IN HELL.”

“Actually,” Quentin says, shifting gears with a loud grind, “I think it’s _Ice Road Truckers_.”

* * *

Eliot stands in a perfectly-tailored navy suit, candlelight catching on his cufflinks and shining in his hair and eyes. Dramatic music plays over everything, the man to Quentin’s right shifting nervously.

Eliot takes a deep breath and smiles. “Quentin, will you accept this rose?”

_Fuck,_ Quentin thinks with a resigned sigh.

They’re trapped in an episode of _The Bachelor._

He rolls his eyes and steps forward, taking the proffered long stem red rose with a sarcastic smile.

Then he stands around and waits as Eliot hands out more roses and sends a few tearful men home, followed by a champagne toast with the half dozen remaining guys, each a contestant trying to win Eliot’s heart.

And Quentin’s irritated and bored and probably drinks too much champagne, but he knows better than to fall in the trap of jealousy. This is fake, what he and Eliot have is literally the only real thing that exists, and he’s fine.

He’s _fine_.

Except he can’t help but feel the small pinch in his chest, just a twinge really, when he sees Eliot aim his flirtiest smile at a burly blond.

The same blond who turns out to be Quentin’s roommate in the enormous mansion they’re all staying in. And who spends half the night drunkenly blabbering about how _handsome_ Eliot is and how _smart_ and _amaaaazing_ and how he thinks he’s _falling_ for Eliot until he finally, blessedly, passes the fuck out.

Quentin takes another forty-five minutes to fall asleep himself, his drunken brain watching the ceiling spin and desperately trying to ignore the splinter of jealousy working its way into his heart.

_It’s stupid_ , he tells himself. _You know this is stupid_.

But he still feels it early the next day when all of the men convene the living room, awkwardly staring around and waiting in loaded, hungover silence until Eliot finally appears.

They all stand, beaming at him, and Quentin can’t help noticing that he’s the shortest of the group. His long hair is messy and his shirt’s wrinkled and, for the first time in a long time, he wonders what Eliot sees in him.

He’d thought he was over this. He’d thought the quest had matured him, strengthened him, finally put to rest his incessant self-doubt. But apparently he can only handle so much.

And it’s not helped when Eliot steps forward and says, “Today is a one-on-one date.” He turns toward Quentin and opens his mouth - but nothing else emerges. He tries again, his lips silently moving like a goldfish for a moment before he presses them closed and shakes his head.

He sighs, gives Quentin an apologetic look, and then pivots to Quentin’s roommate and gestures toward the door. “Shall we?”

There’s a howling in Quentin’s ears and he fights to suppress the stab in his chest, the itching in his fingers, but he still sounds like a wounded animal when he says, “Eliot?”

Eliot’s halfway to the door but he stops immediately. “One moment,” he tells the blond, and comes back, standing close to Quentin, his hand on his elbow.

“I tried to say your name, Q, I swear. This is just some monster cockblocking bullshit.”

Jealousy turns Quentin’s stomach, possessiveness prickling like needles along his spine. Ugh, _god_. He’s so annoyed he kind of wants to slap himself. This is _not_ who he is. This has _never_ been who he is. 

So what the fuck is happening? 

Quentin takes a deep breath and a hard swallow, looking past Eliot at the beaming blond. “It’s fine,” he mumbles, gently shaking off Eliot’s hand. “I’ll just…see you later.”

But the day only gets worse from there. The monster won’t let Quentin sulk privately in his room like a proper drama queen, so he spends the next six hours moping poolside. He drinks fruity cocktails with tiny umbrellas and floats around on an enormous inflated flamingo, ignoring the snarky comments the other men make, but feeling the jealousy grow into a beast clawing in his chest all the same.

He finally manages to doze off when the sun is high and bright, putting his SPF 50 to the test, but he isn’t allowed his moment of peace for long. A producer that looks just like Julia grabs the tail of his flamingo and pulls it against one side of the pool.

“Time for your interview.”

She takes him back inside the mansion, and sits him down in a small room, facing a camera. “So, Quentin, how did it feel watching Eliot ask someone else on a date, right in front of you?”

“Awesome,” Quentin deadpans, rolling his eyes and tucking his hair behind his ears. 

The silence stretches, tight and dangerous, like a rubber band at its breaking point. Julia stares at him, waiting, the little red light on the camera watching like the Eye of Sauron.

Quentin huffs a bad approximation of a laugh and blinks, hard; he shakes his head at how foolish he feels. “It sucked, okay? It sucked. Eliot is beautiful and amazing and everything to me - he’s _Eliot_ \- and right now he’s off doing…whatever.” He looks down at his hands in his lap, his eyes growing damp. “I don’t know why this is bothering me so much. Eliot and I have never been exactly monogamous, and the guy he’s with isn’t even _real_. I’m just…I’m really confused.”

Julia hums some noise that is probably supposed to be sympathetic; Quentin knows she’s secretly thrilled to have gotten him to confess his real feelings on tape.

But at least doing so releases him from the interview - in less than five minutes he’s back out by the pool, swiping an entire bottle of tequila from the bar and clambering back onto his floating flamingo, hiding his red eyes behind dark-tinted Ray-Bans.

So he’s drunk as hell by the time Eliot returns, the sun low and painting the sky pink behind him. The light is doing wonders for his fresh tan, and he’s shiny-eyed and smiling, and Quentin wants to vomit.

He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him. He meant what he said in the interview - he’s never been jealous about Eliot. Quentin understands that El can’t breathe without flirting, that they have the sort of relationship where they might have other partners from time to time, but that in no way lessens what is between _them._ And he’s always been good with it. 

So maybe the jealousy is a by-product of being stuck in this endless hallucination. Maybe, because Eliot is the only thing he has to hold on to, he’s clinging too tightly.

Or maybe the monster is messing with his emotions now, on top of his memories and skillset.

Quentin blanches and shivers, pushing that idea out of his tequila-soaked mind almost immediately. The thought is too terrifying to truly consider. 

And besides, he has better things to focus on. Like the fact that Eliot is walking over to him now, stripping off his shirt and shoes and somehow-still-unwrinkled linen pants, and diving into the pool. He swims up beside Quentin’s flamingo and braces his forearms across the top, tilting it until Quentin rolls toward him. “Q,” he says, soft and patient and warm, rivulets of water dripping from his hair. 

“What do you want?” Quentin asks, trying not to sound petulant and failing completely.

“I want you,” Eliot says. “A private dinner on the beach, with just you.”

“Yeah?” Quentin asks, hopefully.

“Yeah.”

And it’s already set up by the time they get there, a blanket spread across the sand and covered with pillows and a picnic basket and a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket, circled by lit tiki torches.

“This is nice,” Quentin says.

“It’s for you, so it has to be nice. I tried to get us onto a yacht but apparently it’s too last minute.”

“It’s not the timing,” Quentin says. “It’s the monster. It doesn’t want us together here.”

Eliot brushes Quentin’s hair back behind his ear and ducks down to catch his eye. “Well, it’s allowing us to have this. So let’s take advantage of it.”

They eat and talk about not much of anything, just reveling in the quiet comfort of being together. The sea breeze is warm and steady, palm fronds rustling in the distance, waves quietly lapping at the sand in front of them. Quentin doesn’t ask about Eliot’s earlier date, and Eliot doesn’t mention it. 

_It doesn’t matter,_ Quentin tells himself. _We’re living in the moment_. He snuggles back into Eliot’s arms and watches the moonlight on the rippling sea. _And this moment is a good one_.

He takes as gulp of champagne and wills that to be true. 

* * *

“In local news, the ninth annual Cat’s Pajamas Pet Pageant will be held this evening at the community center.” Quentin folds his hands across the news desk, reading along with the scrolling words of the teleprompter beneath the camera. “And now, let’s check in with Chief Meteorologist Eliot Waugh. How’s it looking out there, El?”

Eliot, standing with impeccable posture before a green screen, gestures toward the temperature map. “Oh, it’s gonna be a hot one, Q. Guarantee it.” He winks at the camera. “Time to strip down and get all sweaty.”

Quentin shakes his head with a small smile, blushing.

* * *

Beneath a charming garden arbor on a warm spring day, sunlight dappling their faces and a fat bumblebee buzzing lazily around Quentin’s head, they have an _epically_ stupid argument.

About real estate.

“I am not going with option number two, it has _green shag carpet_ in the master bedroom.”

“Jesus, El, it’s not like it matters! This is a fake episode of _House Hunters;_ it isn’t really going to be our home.”

“Then just let me have my infinity pool!”

“That house is _forty thousand dollars_ over our budget!”

“Our _fake_ budget!”

“But one we have to stick by, according to the rules.”

"So the rules only matter when it’s important to _you_?”

“No, it’s just that the second option makes the most sense. It has an open floorpan and it’s in an excellent school district!”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m considering buying property with you _._ And in _suburbia.”_

* * *

Quentin stands, naked and alone, in a large marble shower with a rainfall head. The posh, minimalist apartment around him is empty, too, but it doesn’t freak him out like it did the first time it happened. The monster separates them like this, occasionally, and he and Eliot always find one another at some point throughout the day. 

He towels off and combs through a closet that is 96% bespoke suits (there’s one pair of jeans and a Taylor Swift concert t-shirt he can only assume he bought while drunk, or high, or - most likely - both) and chooses a three-piece gray one with a white shirt. His hair is long, like it was toward the end of the quests, and it’s such a relief to have it back that he takes his time blowing it dry and parting it deep on one side, tucking it behind his ear.

He grabs his briefcase and scoops his keys out of the small bowl by his front door, nodding to his doorman as he heads out, the soles of his polished wingtips tapping against the concrete sidewalk as he turns toward what he somehow knows is his usual coffee shop.

He expects to see Eliot in a little apron working the espresso machine, but no. It’s Penny, who writes “Quincy” on the side of his macchiato - which Quentin is fairly certain he sees him spit in - but fuck it. He needs the caffeine.

Stepping back out on the street, he pulls the collar of his wool coat closer, his breath clouding the air in front of him. It must be close to Christmas, lights wound around the street poles, tacky decorations in the store windows. The steam from the subway grates rolls over the sidewalk like fog in the gray early morning. 

He can’t figure out what this is supposed to be - nothing funny or absurd has happened, and there’s no dramatic music playing overhead. It looks like a normal city, flooded with normal commuters, just like him. 

And it stays basic and normal through the day. He goes to work and sits through a schedule of drudgery and meetings so boring he has to pinch his thigh under the conference table in order to stay awake. 

By lunchtime, he’s contemplating shoving his absurdly expensive pen through his eye, just to see what the other “people” would do. 

He spins it between his fingers, the old sleight-of-hand dexterity a little rusty but coming back, the sleek fountain pen flipping end over end and back again. It would be so easy to jab the pointed end right in his eyeball, wiggle it around a little just for added dramatic flair. Maybe it’s even what he’s _supposed_ to do - maybe that’s how he finds Eliot, when he’s taken to the hospital.

That distracts him for a solid five minutes, picturing Eliot in a doctor’s coat and the things they could get up to in a hospital bed. 

But then, what if that injury is one that the monster decides not to repair when they jump realities? And then, if Quentin ever makes it back home, he’ll be down an eye. He rolls his lips together, imagining himself as some sort of roguishly handsome one-eyed pirate or something, but then realizes that Margo would probably insist on giving him her collection of eyepatches. One thought of himself in the beaded, embroidered, High-Queenly creations and he puts the pen down. 

Better not to find out. 

The meeting ends and he wanders back to his office, spinning slow circles in his desk chair. He’s reminded of those few weeks after Alice died, when he sat in a sterile office and stared at a computer screen and contributed absolutely nothing. It’s soul-suckingly dull, even when it’s fake. How could this have ever been a tv show?

Then, as he’s leaving for the day, he finally spots Eliot. 

The elevator doors slide open on his floor and there he is, leaning against the handrail in a pinstriped suit and matching silk tie, his white shirt somehow still starched and fresh despite the late hour. The elevator’s style fits with the Art Deco-era architecture of the building - geometric pattern inlaid on the floor, mirrored walls, brass handrail - everything gleaming. And Eliot’s wearing that expression that Quentin suspects he’s spent hours practicing in the mirror - small smile, head tilted just so, eyes promising all sorts of delicious things. 

If there were an advertisement for sex itself, this would be it.

Quentin practically falls into the elevator, dropping his leather briefcase, and jamming the “close door” button. 

“I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to find you here,” he says, reaching for Eliot’s hand, or waist, or face - something, some part of him, any part.

“Me, too,” Eliot answers, weaving their fingers together, staring at Quentin’s mouth. “What do you think this place is? You’re the first interesting thing that’s happened to me all day.”

“Same here,” Quentin says, noticing how broad Eliot’s shoulders look in his suit coat. “Maybe we’re not the stars this time? Maybe we’re, I don’t know, just background extras in this one?”

“Fine by me,” Eliot says, low and promising, “as long as background extras get to do _this_.” He pulls Quentin so close that the toes of their dress shoes knock together, hooking a finger under his chin and tipping his head back a little, his thumb brushing over Quentin’s bottom lip before he bends down and softly kisses it. 

Quentin’s hands slip under Eliot’s jacket and press into his waist, gripping and pulling him closer, demanding, and Eliot responds, winding his hands into Quentin’s hair, dragging his mouth over the sharp line of Quentin’s jaw, the stubble chafing his lips. 

Eliot walks him a step backwards until they’re next to the control panel, then sucks Quentin’s earlobe between his teeth and leans down to pull the emergency stop. 

An alarm bell begins ringing, but neither of them really care. 

Eliot’s fingers are combing and twisting and tugging Quentin’s hair, his hips pinning him against the wall; Quentin’s gasping against Eliot’s mouth, fingertips slipping beneath the band of Eliot’s dress pants, tugging him impossibly closer. Eliot can’t stop fucking with Quentin’s hair, pulling it back from either side of his face, nails lightly scratching against his scalp, his thumbs dipping into the soft hollows behind where his jaw and ears meet. Quentin reaches up and pins one of those hands in place for a moment, turning his face to kiss Eliot’s palm. 

He reaches out to loosen Eliot’s tie, but Eliot drops to his knees first, long, skillful fingers skimming down Quentin’s chest and hips and thighs before he undoes Quentin’s belt and drags his zipper down, the sound loud and filthy in the small elevator. 

He’s staring up at Quentin as he drops his pants and lifts his shirttails, kissing over his lower abdomen, dragging his tongue up over his navel. He shoves the shirt up higher, kissing and licking and sucking a path up to Quentin’s small, pink nipples, grazing his teeth over them before moving back down, the shirt falling back into place over his chest, the cotton growing damp where Eliot’s mouth had been. 

Quentin’s hard and straining against his boxers when Eliot pulls them down and allows him to spring free, lightly smacking his stomach. His pants are bunched around his calves, the waist of his underwear tight across his thighs. His loose belt buckle rattles when Eliot’s knees slide closer, hands squeezing the cheeks of his ass, his nose brushing over Quentin’s skin as he drops low, a warm exhale before his tongue licks one long, hot, wet line from his balls to the tip. 

Eliot doesn’t waste time teasing - the alarm bell is still blaring - swirling his tongue around the head and then sucking it down. He hollows his cheeks and takes him deep, and Quentin slams his head back against the mirrored wall of the elevator and groans, his fingers wrapping around the brass handrail and squeezing until the tendons in his hands ache.

He moans, breathless and panting, as Eliot sets a hard, rapid pace, his curls falling down across his forehead, his skin beginning to bead with sweat. Quentin watches the back of Eliot’s head in the mirror, bobbing on him, and the sight makes him impossibly harder—

—and then he hears someone shouting on the other side of the door. “Hey, everybody okay in there?” 

Eliot flicks his eyes up to Quentin, sparking with challenge, while his tongue traces the swollen vein on the underside of Quentin’s cock. 

_Shit,_ Quentin thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to take an even breath. It takes three tries, but he finally manages to choke out, “Yeah, we’re fine.” It’s about an octave higher than his normal voice but it was a coherent sentence, so he’s impressed with himself. Especially because Eliot chooses that moment to take him even deeper, Quentin feeling himself brush the back of Eliot’s throat. 

His arms are tense like steel, holding him up as his legs begin to grow weak, Eliot rolling his balls with one hand and wrapping the other around him, sliding in time with his mouth, using the saliva as lube as he works methodically, mercilessly. 

Quentin forces himself to open his eyes, his breath coming in strangled pants. 

And holy _fuck,_ this is incredible. He’d fantasized about elevator sex before because, well, who hasn’t, but this is even better than he could have imagined. Watching them reflected and multiplied over and over in the mirrored walls, an infinite number of Quentins getting blown by an infinite number of Eliots, their mouths tight and wet and hot, their tongues doing that _thing_ that defies all description.  

He can feel it coming soon, _too_ soon, the pressure growing tighter and tighter, his balls drawing up and his stomach clenching. He touches Eliot’s face in warning, his hand tender and shaking, but Eliot’s pace is unrelenting, and Quentin bites his lip and groans as the orgasm punches out of him so hard and fast that it’s nearly painful. 

He looks down and locks eyes with Eliot, who’s staring up at him as Quentin shoots down his throat. And if it was biologically possible for Quentin to get hard again right then and there, he would. 

Security comes just moments after he does, knocking on the other side of the elevator doors, but Eliot releases the emergency stop and quickly presses the button for the lobby, sending them gliding safely down a few dozen floors. 

Quentin uses the time to try to pull himself together - re-tucking his shirt, buckling his designer belt, futilely finger-combing his fucked up hair. “You know,” he says, “even though I’m just a background character here, the monster gave me a pretty great apartment. It’s got an enormous shower. Wanna see it?” 

Eliot, buttoning his coat to hide the bulge straining against his pants, just smirks, wiping his thumb at the corner of his wet mouth.

The elevator dings when it reaches the lobby and Quentin is tugging him by his tie across the cavernous marble space, pulling him down for kisses every other step, and they’re flushed and laughing and completely miss the fact that the security guard is unconscious and zip-tied behind his desk, or that there’s half a dozen people in black ski masks and carrying assault rifles, slipping up the staircase behind them. 

* * *

“I’m gonna be sick.”

Quentin does, in fact, look a bit green beneath his surgical mask, the bright fluorescent lights overhead doing him no favors. 

And Eliot was sympathetic the first five times they had some version of this conversation, but by now he’s utterly out of patience. “Pull it together, Q. Fuck. It’s not real blood, okay? It’s just magic. Magical blood, magical guts, magical scalpel, magical patient.” 

Quentin tugs at his scrub top, carefully not looking at the shining, stainless steel scalpel Eliot’s waving around. “So then why do we have to operate at all?” 

“Because the monster won’t let us do anything else. We tried to make out in the supply closet. We tried to have a long lunch in the cafeteria, or take naps in empty hospital beds, or walk right out the front door. We tried to work in dermatology, and the emergency room, and the morgue, and even proctology. None of it worked. We just kept getting bounced back here, to this guy, who apparently needs us to crack open his chest and fuck around with his heart.” 

Quentin frowns. “Did you have to use the word ‘crack’? It’s so…onomatopoeic.” 

“Well, what kind of sound do you think it’s going to make when we use these?” Eliot asks, holding up a bone saw and rib spreader. 

“Oh, fuuuuuuuck…” Quentin says, his eyes rolling back and his legs collapsing under him. 

Penny, a surgical technician standing on Quentin’s left, takes a step back and just lets him fall, watching his head bounce a little off the shiny linoleum. “Pussy.”

* * *

The first thing Quentin notices is that he feels weird.

It’s like he’s not breathing and his heart has stopped, but it’s okay, because the basic rules of biology don’t apply here. He blinks and it seems to take too long, as if his eyes are much larger than normal. His whole head feels way too big, actually, round and ridiculously out of proportion to his small form. 

He looks down. Thick black lines outline the basic, stylistic design of his body. He doesn’t have hands or any distinguishable joints, but everything still seems to bend and work okay. He’s dressed in blue, his hair tied in pigtails above either ear, and his skin is a uniform, unnatural peach color. 

Everything is unnatural, actually. It only exists in stylized two-dimensional space, which would probably be incalculably weird except that he’s in 2-D, too. The trees beside him are sticks with green circles drawn around them, the clouds static white puffs hanging in the bright blue sky, the buildings just a collection of intersecting straight lines.

They’re inside a cartoon.

“So this is… new. Nice hair, Q.”

Quentin looks up at the enormous bow on top of Eliot’s head. “You’re one to talk,” he retorts, already taking down the pigtails.

Eliot raises an eyebrow - actually, no, he doesn’t. His face looks like he’s confused, but he doesn’t really have an eyebrow to raise - it’s more like one giant eye itself flattens across the top. He reaches back and pulls the end of his long ponytail in front of his face. 

It’s red.

Eliot blinks, his eyes the size of tennis balls, occupying at least a third of his face. “…huh.”

Quentin stares at his shoes, trying to figure out how he’s standing upright when his feet don’t have any depth. “Isn’t this freaking you out a little bit?” 

“Well, sure, ginger hair hardly goes with my complexion-“

“No, I mean how easily the monster changes us. It’s not just an accent or little bits of knowledge anymore. Look at us! We’re in 2-D! We’ve lost an entire fucking dimension!” Quentin waves his pink, fingerless hand in front of Eliot’s round face. “It’s like the monster isn’t happy just putting us in scenarios and seeing what we’ll do anymore. It wants to _change_ us, to force us do what it wants, _become_ who it wants.”

“Yes, but,” Eliot kicks off the ground, grinning and hovering ten feet above Quentin’s head. “We can fly.”

Margo, wearing green and a scowl that looks like it’s permanently drawn on, flies in and hovers next to Eliot. She stares down at Quentin for half a second, sighs, and shoots lasers out of her eyes directly at Quentin’s feet. 

“Shit!” He yelps as the pavement melts into a sticky black tar, but it’s an effective move to get him up in the air - Quentin’s now flying alongside Eliot without really thinking about it. 

“If you cocksuckers are done being weird, there’s something that looks like the bastard lovechild of Godzilla and that turtle thing from Super Mario eating half of the city. We should probably do something about it,” Margo says, gesturing over her shoulder.

“I don’t think they say ‘cocksuckers’ in _The Powerpuff Girls_ ,” Quentin mutters under his breath.

“I don’t think it’s possible to create a version of Bambi that _doesn’t_ say cocksucker,” Eliot answers.

They zoom across the skyline in close formation until they see the enormous lizard/turtle monster, which is, in fact, literally chewing the scenery. 

“Fuck you, turtle head!” Margo yells as she flies straight at it, her tiny fist somehow strong enough that her uppercut knocks the creature flat on its ass.

And the rest of the battle is exactly how Quentin had always imagined a cartoon fight when he watched them on Saturday mornings as a kid, sitting cross-legged in front of the tv and eating cereal in his pajamas. It’s all bright colors and upbeat music, sound effects that are nothing like the actual sound of fists on flesh. Words like “Pow!” and “Bam!” pop up when they land a hit. 

And it’s actually _fun,_ the punches and kicks utterly painless. He gets whacked by the creature’s scaly green tail once, and literally sees twittering birds and twinkling stars circling around his head.

His only regret is taking down the pigtails - his hair keeps getting in his enormous eyes as he flies around.

Margo takes over the majority of the fight, slamming the lizard into buildings and kicking it into the pavement, yelling some kind of wordless battle cry as she beats it into unconsciousness.

It’s over quickly - too quickly. Without the distraction of the fight, Quentin has nothing else to do but worry about how far the monster has gone as he flies home next to Eliot, sneaking peeks at his nearly unrecognizable partner. 

If it can change them this much physically, what about mentally? Emotionally? Quentin still _feels_ like himself, but what if that’s just because that’s what the monster wants him to feel?

He remembers thinking something similar about the strange jealousy he felt back when he was a contestant on _The Bachelor._ Has the monster been fucking with him much more than he’d realized?

And if he’s not in control of his body or personality or emotions, does he even still truly _exist?_ Does Eliot? Is the monster controlling him, too - making him say and do things with Quentin that Eliot doesn’t actually want?

Quentin suddenly feels sick and swollen and sore, his tiny animated chest so dense and heavy with all his pent up worries that he has no idea how he’s still able to fly. 

He’s worked himself into a nauseating anxiety spiral by the time they get back to their caricatural little house, linear and basic and painted in bright, even hues. 

And he’s both desperate to talk to Eliot about it and terrified, in some formless, all-encompassing way, to hear what he might say. But there really isn’t a chance for that conversation here - Eliot and Margo are still buzzing with adrenaline from the fight, zipping around the kitchen making enormous sandwiches and re-enacting their favorite parts. 

And when they finally calm down and pile in with Quentin on the sofa, Eliot almost immediately falls asleep. His big eyes drift closed and tiny cartoon zzz’s float above his head where it rests in Quentin’s small lap, Margo a big, frowning spoon curled against his back. 

* * *

“I just think we’ve started to lose sight of the end goal.” Quentin’s got his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his sweater, nervously trying to ignore the bright lights and studio audience.

“And I thought we were choosing to make the best of our situation, to live our lives in the present moment.”

“We are.”

“Aren’t you happy, Q?” Eliot asks, leaning forward in the armchair beside Quentin, sounding wounded.

“You know that I am. Jesus, El, of course I am, I’m with you, but that doesn’t mean that we just give up on trying to get back home.” Quentin’s working hard to keep his voice from rising.

Eliot doesn’t bother; he starts yelling. “I’m not giving up! I just don’t see any way out. Do you have any great new ideas?”

“Well, no, but—“

“But what? You feel sad and afraid and so I should, too?”

Quentin flinches, blinking against the sting. “Ouch.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” Eliot murmurs.

“Are you sure? How can you know what you mean? Or who you are? The things this monster does to us…it worries me, Eliot.”

“And we’re going to explore all of those emotions and much more when we return from the commercial break,” Oprah Winfrey says, smiling at the camera from the opposite side of the stage. 

* * *

Quentin has no idea where he’s headed, but his feet do. He’s been following them all day, along a winding mail delivery route through some of Boston’s better neighborhoods. It’s sometime in the mid-1980s judging by the fashion, and late autumn. The trees are almost entirely bare, their rust-colored leaves crunching under his feet, the air nipping at his nose and fingers now that the sun has sunk low and orange on the horizon.

He turns in before really noticing, descending a half-flight of steps from the street level and pushing open a heavy oak door. Inside he finds a creaky old bar, dim and warm and busy without being crowded. It feels comfortable and familiar, safe. Like home. 

“Hey Q,” half a dozen people call out. 

He waves, awkwardly, at all of them, and Kady walks by in a waitress uniform. “I’ll have your usual out in just a minute,” she tells him, with a shade more warmth than she’s ever addressed him with in reality, touching his arm as she passes. 

“Thanks,” he answers, allowing himself a small smile as he shrugs out of his jacket and heads for the only empty stool at the enormous dark wooden bar, rectangular in shape and occupying the center of the room. Most of his friends are perched on the other barstools and Eliot’s tending bar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a towel tossed over his left shoulder. “There you are,” he says, expertly pulling a beer and sliding it across the bar toward Quentin, reaching over to give his hand a quick squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot says, “that things have been…strained between us. If you have concerns, we should talk about them.” 

Quentin shakes his head, lifting his beer and taking a sip, the foam painting a small white mustache on his upper lip. “No, I, uh, I’m probably just being too…well, too _me_ about all of it. You’re right. There’s nothing we can do; we should just try to be happy.” 

And right now, it’s easy to do.

Because the jukebox is loaded with Journey and Queen and Toto, and Margo is laughing her real, best laugh at something Eliot says, a cackle loud enough that it echoes across the bar. 

To his right, Josh and Alice are arguing over the Patriots’ offensive strategy, loud and slurring but smiling, dissolving into giggles after every other sentence. Julia and Penny are huddled close together at two corner stools, and Kady keeps going out of her way when running drinks so she can plant kisses on both their faces.

Quentin sighs, long and deep and relieved. It’s been a while since they were somewhere safe and boring and wholesome, where all he has to do is sit and drink with his friends. 

He leans on the bar, propping his head in his hand, and lets the heat from the hissing radiators thaw him all the way through. His polyester postal worker uniform itches and his feet ache, but the beer helps ease it.

The air is smoky, cigarettes in half the hands in the place, and Quentin gives in to the craving, bumming one from Josh. He allows himself to savor it, letting his eyes close as he takes a long drag, warm smoke filling his lungs and nicotine helping to soothe the last of his anxiety. He eats a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the bar, enjoying the salt with his beer and his smoke, and a smile blooms across his face.

Eliot seems so relaxed and happy, too; this is his element, pouring and mixing and chatting with the regulars, listening to sob stories and telling jokes with a smile and a shine in his dark eyes. 

_He should do this when we get home_ , Quentin thinks. _Open up his own bar_. 

It’s the first time he’s thought about a life outside of the monster’s playground with anything like hope in a long, long time.

Quentin settles in for a lingering, pleasant evening, wiggling his ass a little in the soft leather of the barstool. He feels like warm butter sliding over hot toast, his muscles meltingly relaxed and unwound, the tension he always carries falling away. He’s in a comfortable bar, surrounded by all of his friends, and he feels like _himself_ again, wholly, _finally_. Like it’s just him, and _all_ of him, in his bones and guts and eyes and toes.

Eliot pours a couple of shots and winks at him, then laughs at some smart-ass comment Kady makes, snapping his towel playfully at her butt as she walks away with another tray of drinks. 

Quentin feels so mushy and tender and blissful; he never wants to leave.

He doesn’t even get to finish his second beer before the monster switches them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very special thank you to Rae for graciously giving me permission to use her adorable Powerpuff Girls art as inspiration for that section of this chapter. <3


	7. The Man From M.O.N.S.T.E.R.

Isaac, or Josh, or who-the-fuck-ever he’s supposed to be now, idles outside the address where he usually drops Janet off.

Not Janet. Margo. Shit.

His high is, most unfortunately, starting to wear off - and with it, his resolve. 

He’d smoked the first of his homegrown crop tonight and was hit with a million shards of memory, slicing at the fabric shroud of his Isaac identity until it fell away in tatters. 

“Fuckin’ A,” he’d said, slouching back against his couch and staring down at his fingers, remembering how it felt to move them in precise sequences and reshape the world around him. How it felt to have power. To do _magic._  

And he hadn’t been alone when he was a magician. He remembers Julia and Penny and Margo and Alice and Alice’s _boobs_. Dean Fogg must have hit him with some hella powerful magic to make him forget that glorious chest.

And then he jumped to his feet, dizzy with conviction. Because he knew what he had to do. 

He would find his friends. He would smoke them out, show them who they truly were, and make them remember the stuff he just saw. Then they’d take down the library and save the magical world. Again.

He, Josh Hoberman, was going to be a goddamned pot-dealing _hero_.

And he would start with Margo. Janet. Fuck, this double life shit could be such a boner killer. Whatever she’s called, she’s up first, because he’s pretty sure he can find her.

But, as he waited to come down enough to drive, the conviction and memories started to fade away. His latent Naturalist ability only makes the weed magical for a small window of time - it reveals truths, but that only lasts as long as the other effects do. 

So now, parked on Margo’s curb, his true memories are hazy and gray, drifting like smoke itself.

Which is why he’s hotboxing in his crappy compact car ten minutes later when Margo’s front door swings open. She stands there, backlit in a short silk robe, one hand on her hip, and her glare alone is enough to get him to clamber out of the driver’s seat, pipe half-forgotten in his fingers.

“I see you, creepy uber-driving dickwad. You’re hardly the first desperate, pathetic little worm to try to  stalk me, but I promise you - your pasty, hairless balls will not enjoy my brand of justice if you take one step onto my property.”

Josh’s mouth is hanging open, his gaze snagged somewhere around the middle of her gloriously tanned thighs, and it takes him a half-second too long to remember to use his words. “No, I, uh, I’m not stalking you, I swear.” He clears his throat. “In fact, I come bearing gifts. So there’s no need for frighteningly specific threats about my testicles.”

She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow until it disappears under her bangs. “What kind of gifts?”

Josh lifts the pipe, along with a ziplock baggie he pulls from his coat pocket. “The hallucinogenic kind.”

She steps back and allows him to come inside.

* * *

Quentin groans.

His head aches - scratch that, _everything_ aches - and his body and brain seem to have temporarily stopped speaking to one another. He wants to open his eyes, he wants to find out why he feels like he went three rounds with a city bus, and he wants to know who he can hear breathing right beside him.

Instead, all he can do for a long moment is lie there and make incoherent sounds of pain.

He’s ashamed of himself. He was trained to be better than this; he’s supposed to be the best Russia has to offer. He should be as cruel and clean as a Siberian winter, frozen and fierce. What kind of KGB agent spends his time lying about and moaning? When did he become the sort of person that indulges this sort of personal weakness?

It’s that thought that finally restores control over his body and he sits up a little, blinking to try to clear the fuzziness from his vision. He reaches up to rub at the dampness on the back of his throbbing head, only to find that he can’t move his right arm. 

“What the fuck?”

“An excellent question,” a man’s voice says from somewhere directly to his right.

Quentin blinks a few more times and finally gets his eyes to focus - although the sight that greets him makes him regret that decision. He’s in a dingy bathroom, but the coloring seems to be off somehow; it’s too bright and oversaturated, like the heyday of Technicolor processing. 

The tile beneath him is cracked and mildewed and cold, the chill seeped into his bones in a way that tells him that he’s been sitting there for a long time. The air reeks of piss and antiseptic, and both he and the other man are sporting an assortment of black eyes, busted lips, and raw knuckles. 

And beyond that, Quentin just feels…off. Wrong, disfigured, like something vital is missing or twisted or compacted.

He mentally runs through what he knows about his situation - born in Atsagat in 1937, recruited and trained as a KGB agent, rising through the ranks until he was one of their top weapons in the Cold War. He has spent the last eighteen months stationed in East Berlin, currently on a secret mission to track the elusive arms dealer smuggling guns into the city, known only as a codename - The Destroyer.

He looks down at himself, and he’s dressed as he always is, in clothes that are dark and utilitarian and unremarkable - except for the bracelet of a handcuff encircling his right wrist. His eyes follow the chain as it winds through the u-bend of a chipped porcelain sink and on to the other cuff.

Which is locked around Eliot’s left wrist. 

Quentin goes very, very still.

Because nothing that he remembers explains how he has wound up in handcuffs with his mortal enemy, Eliot Waugh. He’s the CIA’s top agent, the one that’s escaped Quentin’s clutches half a dozen times, somehow drifting back and forth across the Berlin Wall like smog on the wind. 

Quentin was briefed on Eliot before he was given this assignment, in a dank little room deep inside the Kremlin, his superior officer chewing on the end of a fat cigar that seemed to swallow all the air until it became nearly impossible to breathe. He had a case file filled with documents and photos, background on the American spy. 

The man told him of Eliot’s brilliance, his proficiency with languages, his ineffable charm. “This is not your strength, Comrade, so you will have to win some other way.” Quentin didn’t bother being offended - no point in it, when it’s simply the truth - and besides, he was a little distracted by the photos in the file. He could see that Eliot was undeniably attractive - he’d have to be a blind idiot not to - but he sternly told himself that it was hardly relevant. 

Eliot was the enemy. Eliot was to be eliminated at all costs. 

And after all these months chasing rumors and near-misses around this desperate city, Quentin’s finally got his chance.

He keeps a gun tucked into the waist of his pants and he shifts his weight, just slightly, to see if he can feel the pressure of it.

He can’t; it’s not there. 

But he also knows that he keeps a knife in his boot, and he pulls it with his free hand and has it at Eliot’s throat in the blink of an eye.

Eliot just smiles at him, but it’s hardly pleasant. It’s the look a chess master gives his opponent when he realizes he’s half a dozen moves from checkmate and the other person has no idea and no means of escape.

It sets Quentin’s teeth on edge. 

And, despite his training and mission and the bizarre situation, Quentin is struck with the realization that Eliot is even _more_ attractive in person. He’s sitting so close that Quentin can see how thick his eyelashes are, the hint of stubble on his cheek, the exact shade of his eyes. He’s in a navy suit and vest, everything stained and torn, his tie rakishly askew. His hair is tousled and he looks as bruised and beaten as Quentin feels, but it just seems to add to the roguishly handsome effect.

Quentin’s blade is biting into Eliot’s neck, a thin stream of blood running down and soaking into the starched collar of his white shirt, and Quentin’s dizzy with the sight.

He wants to press his thumb into the cleft of Eliot’s chin; he wants to lick the salted, coppery skin in the hollows of his collarbones.

It’s stupid. It’s impossible. It’s _treasonous_. 

Still, his gaze drops to Eliot’s mouth against his will as he idly wonders what it would be like to kiss him. And then there’s a flash like a tiny lightning storm in his brain, holding a thousand tastes and smells and sensations - mint and smoke and the heat of a lifetime of kisses, the press of soft lips and the scrape of stubble. For a second, Eliot’s mouth is more familiar than his own.

It passes almost immediately, and Quentin can’t afford to waste any more time thinking about it. Because in just that fraction of a second that he was distracted, Eliot drew the gun that had been hidden beneath his jacket.

And he’s got it aimed right between Quentin’s eyes. 

Another tiny electrical storm, this one showing Quentin the image of Eliot holding a different gun. It’s somewhere dark and he’s standing farther away, Quentin running at him and yelling “No!” as he pulls the trigger - but it’s warped and muddied, like an underexposed photograph. 

Quentin exhales and it’s gone.

He pushes the knife harder against Eliot’s neck.

Eliot’s finger tightens ever-so-slightly on the trigger.

They’re close enough that Quentin could probably take the gun from him, his mind already sifting through dozens of disarming techniques - but then he remembers that Eliot is at least as trained as he is. He’s the CIA’s best. 

And they’re about half a second away from seriously fucking each other up.

The air between them is charged, brittle. Their eyes are locked together, unblinking, and Quentin doesn’t see any way that either of them make it out of this alive.

And then Eliot sighs. 

“Look, Comrade, normally I’d be all about making a mess of that adorable face of yours, but I think we have slightly larger concerns at the moment.”

Quentin doesn’t waver. “I assure you, I am always your _largest_ concern.”

Eliot’s gaze drifts south of Quentin’s waist with a smirk. “It’s a serious situation, so I’m going to skip the obvious dick joke here and get right to the point.” He lifts the arm chained to Quentin’s, rattling the handcuffs against the drainpipe. “We’re handcuffed to one another.”

“And it’s _your_ _fault_ ,” Quentin says, suddenly remembering how they wound up in this predicament. He should wonder more about how that memory just…appeared, but he’s too incensed to focus properly. “You’re the one who can’t even sneak into the building without alerting the guards.”

“Actually, they had no idea either of us were here until you _shot at me._ ”

Quentin points at Eliot. “CIA.” He points at himself. “KGB.” He shrugs. “I was doing my job.”

“Well, you did it so well that you got us both captured.”

They pout in stormy silence for a moment, listening to water slowly drip from the faucet above them. 

“What are you doing here anyway?” Quentin finally asks.

“Same as you, I suspect.”

Quentin just stares at him with narrowed eyes.

Eliot sighs again. “I’m after The Destroyer.”

“Why would you be after The Destroyer? Our intel says she’s one of yours.”

Eliot tilts his head, curious in a predatory way. “So you got far enough to determine that she’s a _she._ Maybe you aren’t completely useless.”

Quentin’s jaw tightens, his words ground out around his teeth. “It would be so easy to cut your throat open right here and now.”

“And I could pull the trigger long before I bled out.” He shrugs, discussing their hypothetical deaths like the weather forecast. “But instead of carrying on our respective countries’ long tradition of mutually assured destruction, I propose a temporary truce. You put down the knife and the stony glare, I put down my gun and killer wit, and we work together.”

Quentin’s eyes somehow manage to narrow further, dark slits burning with rage and suspicion. 

“Just long enough to escape, Agent Coldwater. Then we can go back to trying to kill each other as god and the politicians intended.”

Quentin watches him for a long time. The steadiness of the hand holding the gun, never wavering under its weight or Eliot’s obvious injuries. The impenetrable black of his eyes, calm on the surface, a cesspool of secrets swirling beneath. Quentin wants to kill him right here, even if it would mean his own end.

But that’s just his emotions speaking. And Quentin learned to ignore those long ago.

“да,” he answers, unconsciously slipping back into Russian. It’s been a long time since he’s had to use anything except that or German, and he’s rusty. 

But Eliot speaks it too, so he lowers the gun. Slowly. Warily. 

And Quentin has to consciously think about putting the knife down, about the muscles that have to contract, the bones in his elbow moving against one another like a closing hinge when he rests the knife against his thigh, the edge wet with Eliot’s blood and soaking into his black pants. His grip on it doesn’t loosen a fraction, though.

At least, not until Eliot produces a pair of long, thin, metal instruments from somewhere inside his vest and sets to work picking the handcuff lock, somehow laser-focused while simultaneously monitoring Quentin’s every breath and microexpression.

But there’s not much to see at the moment since Quentin’s just sitting there _staring,_ watching Eliot’s hands, long-fingered and skillfully elegant, making minute adjustments to the slim tools inserted in the lock. 

Because Quentin is currently being crushed under a wave of the strangest sense of déjà vu - except that he hasn’t seen this _exact_ moment before. More like a thousand similar ones, Eliot’s fingers moving through a series of complicated motions, crossing and sliding and twisting. And then Quentin sees them doing less complicated but just as skillful things - stroking absently over his knee, scratching down his chest, wrapping around his cock. 

The hallucination is so vivid he can almost _feel_ it, growing half-hard at only the idea. 

_Shit._ This is not helpful right now. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to slow his breathing and redistribute the blood in his veins. 

He must have been drugged while he was unconscious; that’s the only explanation for something that’s so impossible, and yet seems so real. But denying it does something in his chest - a tightening, a crack, a hitch in his breathing - and Eliot looks up from beneath his eyebrows, furrowed in concentration. “You okay there, Comrade?

Quentin opens his eyes a fraction, squinting at him. He feels like he’s being mocked; he _hates_ being mocked. “I would be better if you were not so slow at picking lock.” It’s as if realizing that he’s speaking a language that’s not his native tongue has made him worse at it, thickening his accent, dropping his contractions and articles. 

But at least whatever warmth the hallucination had caused is gone. He’s back to wanting nothing more than to be freed from the American. 

And then - should the opportunity present itself - to put a bullet in his brain. 

“Your name is rather unique for a Russian agent,” Eliot observes, oblivious to those murderous thoughts. “Quentin Coldwater.”

The sound of his full name rattles at something caged inside Quentin, locked behind heavy iron doors. “It is family name,” he finally says, but he knows it’s a lie. 

He just doesn’t know what the truth is. 

So he tries to ground himself in what he knows is real, fingers absently trailing over the small scar on his neck as he remembers how he got it, a bullet grazing by in a botched assassination attempt on his asset during his first solo mission. Another millimeter and he’d have bled out long before medical help could have arrived. And there’s a bump in his right thigh where a piece of shrapnel blew into him and the surgeons never bothered to take it out. If he concentrates, he can still smell the cloying perfume his firearms instructor wore, feel her calloused fingers brushing his when she handed him his first weapon.

That is what’s real. That is who he is. Everything else is just…dreams. Fantasies. 

Useless.

Quentin watches Eliot’s hands twist smartly to the side, his hand jerking back as soon as he hears the lock click open. Of course Eliot released his own hand, leaving Quentin with the cuffs dangling from his right wrist, clinking and jangling as he flips the knife to his dominant hand. He spins it with deft fingers until he’s positioned to jab it into Eliot’s neck at the first sign of aggression.

And Eliot has backed to the far end of the bathroom - still no more than a few feet away, but a distance that puts his gun at a distinct advantage. 

It all seems crazy, suddenly, that he and Eliot have found themselves in this situation, where they’re seriously considering _killing_ each other in a mildew-stained shithole.

He’s struck with another flash and sees Eliot as an old man, dead and wrapped in a blanket, lying at the bottom of a grave that Quentin knows he dug himself. He can still feel the burn of the shovel against the thin skin of his arthritic hands, the sweat drying on his stooped back, the tears dripping down his wrinkled face.

It’s as if someone is driving a knife through his temples, sharp and piercing, debilitating and sudden. And then it passes.

He shakes his head. Those goddamned drugs and their strange, delirious side effects. He sees so many fractured versions of himself that he feels like he should be standing five Quentins strong, strung across this bathroom like paper dolls. 

Instead, it’s just a mess of broken pieces smashed inside his compact frame, and he’s struggling to contain them. He’s going to burst.

But he can’t show Eliot that. So without warning Quentin rushes him, the gun and knife clattering to the floor in the collision of their bodies, the thick meaty sound of flesh striking flesh echoing in the small space.

Quentin’s at a significant size disadvantage, but he’s fast and he’s trained to make the most of it. He gets in two quick jabs to Eliot’s kidneys before he takes a knee to the gut and stumbles back, Eliot swinging wide and wild - his right eye is black and swelling and obviously affecting him more than he’d let on. Quentin easily ducks under his arm and slips around behind him, leaping up and hooking his elbow around Eliot’s throat, pulling him down and back in a punishing chokehold. 

Eliot’s feet scrabble against the damp tile for a moment before finding purchase and shoving Quentin back into a wall, hard, his head bouncing a little as his vision swims and darkens. But his grip stays tight and they slide to the floor, Quentin pinned between Eliot’s tall, solid frame and the rough plaster wall. 

He can feel Eliot’s pulse beating like a hummingbird’s against his arm, light and shallow and unbearably quick. He’s making tiny choking sounds as he struggles for air, and Quentin is bounced out of his body again, into a memory of Eliot standing in a blank white space in front of a child that Quentin somehow knows is a monster, one that’s gleefully choking the life out of him with _magic._

He remembers how it had felt to see that, how helpless and hopeless and desperate he’d been, how he wanted nothing more than to see Eliot free and tall and proud and happy.

Quentin doesn’t understand that, can’t possibly reconcile it with his KGB superior and that little smoke-filled room and the fat dossier proclaiming Eliot as Quentin’s number one enemy.

Eliot could _never_ be his enemy.

Quentin lets him go.

Eliot doesn’t move for a long moment, coughing and rubbing gingerly at his throbbing throat. When he speaks it sounds painful - burning ash blowing over cracked pavement and broken glass. “Thanks, I guess.” He sucks in a greedy lungful of the damp air and arches his back a little, just enough to rock his ass back into Quentin’s crotch. “I’d ask if you were going soft on me, but I can feel that isn’t the case.”

“Certainly not,” Quentin says, a little breathless, his mouth inches from Eliot’s ear. “But we agreed on a truce, and I am a man of my word.”

Eliot scoffs and would probably say something that would lead to yet another round of fighting, but he’s interrupted by what sounds like half a dozen voices on the other side of the door, deep and low and speaking German, the syllables strong and guttural. 

“Fine.”

They separate slowly at first, cautiously peeling skin from skin and untangling limbs, then leaping to separate corners of the bathroom. They retrieve their dropped weapons slowly, careful not to spook one another.

The overhead light hums; their breath echoes harshly. 

Eliot eventually flicks his eyes to the door, long enough to assess the smooth metal face of it and sigh. His lock-picking skills are utterly useless if there’s no lock on this side to pick.

“I think this one is going to appeal more to your skillset, Comrade.”

“Which is what?”

“Steely Soviet strength.”

Quentin knows he’s being flattered, but he finds he doesn’t actually care. Eliot’s so smooth that he loops from sincere to ironic and all the way back around again. 

So Quentin plants his boot in one hard kick at the frame exactly where the handle should be, and it cracks and splinters, the door springing open. 

The guards filling the hallway don’t have time to react before Eliot and Quentin rush them, fists and feet flying in the dim light, gunshots flashing, plaster dust snowing from fresh holes punched in the wall.

And Quentin is actually a serious _badass._ He stabs and then disarms one man, using his gun to shoot another before the first body even hits the ground. 

It’s almost impossible to reconcile this with his real life, where his only fighting skills came through shoddy battle magic. This Quentin would be shocked to learn that he’s always been a little afraid of one of his friends because he knows that she could kick his ass even if she was blindfolded and tied to a chair. All he knows now is that he’s trained for years in a broad range of schools of combat, honing his skills over all the time he’s spent as an agent in the field. And it’s taught him how to read his opponent, to see that he telegraphs his left hook and leaves an opening for Quentin to land a vicious uppercut, then kick him in the groin and watch him drop to his knees, stunned and groaning, before pistol-whipping him into unconsciousness. 

He should kill him. He’s a liability; he’s seen Quentin’s face. But some small kernel of something buried deep, _deep_ inside Quentin recoils at the idea. 

He doesn’t have time to consider it; Eliot’s shouting for him at the far end of the hallway. 

He’s found an exit.

Together, they burst out onto the street, a dark alley empty except for the patter of rain against the ground. It paints the asphalt in jeweled tones under the streetlight at the far end, green to yellow to red, and soaks Quentin’s hair and shoulders. 

The dark and damp and silence are jarring after the chaos of the fight, and he has to consciously think about slowing his breathing, calming the sledgehammer slam of his heartbeat. 

He’s dripping wet by the time they reach the intersection, his boots slapping puddles and splashing dirty water over his pants and Eliot’s. “You’d think you were three times your size, the noise and mess you make,” Eliot complains. “You’re getting mud all over me.” 

“It would not be a problem if you did not stand so close.” 

Eliot trails a finger over the back of Quentin’s wrist, soft and light. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

Half of Quentin is certain that he doesn’t; the other half wants to lean into the touch.

He shivers, and it’s not from the freezing rain.

And he finally admits that this has to be more than just the side effects of some drugs - which means that the only explanation left is that Quentin is going crazy. Nuts. Bonkers. Suffering some sort of full-on psychotic break. He has to get away from this American with his dark eyes and shining hair and overt flirtations. 

Apparently Eliot decides the same thing. “Well, this is where we part, then.”

Quentin licks his lips, pulled by two diametrically opposed desires. “Aren’t you still on your mission? Eliminate The Destroyer?”

“Yes,” Eliot says, casually sliding one hand into his pocket.

Quentin’s fingers are fidgeting at his sides, and he’s speaking before he knows why. “She’s not in Berlin.” He immediately wants to bang his head into the stone wall behind him. He’s helping his enemy. What the _fuck_ is going on?

Eliot gives him a sly smile. “So you’ve figured that much out. I’m impressed. Do you have a way out of the city?”

It’s obvious he wants Quentin to ask for his help, which is exactly why Quentin won’t. “I’m KGB,” he says instead, chin held high. “I can get out any time I like.”

“Excellent,” Eliot says, straightening his cuffs and standing taller. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He takes a half step away, Quentin’s heart stretching like taffy with the distance.

And then the door they escaped through slams open and there’s the sound of boots pounding pavement, followed by the flash and pop of gunfire. Quentin hears a bullet bury itself in the building just inches from his face, and he relents.

“Well, since we’re after the same target, maybe we should work together. Just a little bit longer.”

Eliot doesn’t pause to gloat. “Follow me. My extraction point is less than a block away.”

Except they don’t actually go that fraction of a block. They don’t leave Berlin; they _definitely_ don’t travel hundreds of miles south. They don’t go anywhere.

The world moves around _them._

The black night and frigid, punishing rain disappear, the strong German architecture giving way to a skyline of elegantly decaying cupolas and terracotta roofs lit by warm Italian sunlight. And then the words ROME, ITALY pop up and hover in the air in front of their faces, ten feet tall. 

They look at each other then, confused. 

It’s a struggle for Quentin to speak suddenly, having to force his words like he’s tunneling through a concrete wall using a plastic spork. But he manages to grind out, “That was not normal.” 

Eliot’s wincing, like a similar force is working to keep him from answering when he says, “Definitely not. At least, that’s not how I’ve ever traveled before.” 

Something tickles at the back of Quentin’s brain, something he has no name for but that makes him ask, “How _have_ you traveled?” 

Eliot looks at him, unseeing. He’s awash in a memory of riding in his father’s old pickup for a trip into St. Louis one summer when he was nine to see a Cardinals baseball game. The air conditioner had been broken so they’d rolled the windows down, Eliot’s sweaty skin sticking to the cracked vinyl seat, the roar of air whipping through giving him hours of blissful distance from his father’s critical commentary. 

Except that memory is fifty years in the future from _now_ , and doesn’t align at all with the stock childhood in a wealthy neighborhood in Alexandria, Virginia that he remembers as part of his agent lifestyle. 

Now he looks like Quentin felt earlier - like he knows something is horribly, terribly _wrong._ “How have _you_?” 

And Quentin should be thinking of the rhythmic rocking of smoky trains on cold winter nights, but instead he sees a crowded plane and muggy jetway in Orlando when his dad took him to Disney World for the first time. 

All of his memories feel equally real, forming a schism that cracks the facade of his persona a bit, just enough to let some light in. Quentin remembers Julia’s face, laughing at something he said while they were studying together senior year. He remembers the first time he saw Eliot lying across the Brakebills sign, and Dean Fogg during his admissions test, and being crowned a king of Fillory, and how he felt watching Alice niffin out. He sees the quests and the mosaic and Brian the Professor and _holy shit_ this is too many memories for one mind to hold, so many lifetimes crammed together and bouncing off one another, contradictory in places. 

Because he can still remember the pride and anticipation he felt when he was given his first assignment for the KGB. He can practically _taste_ his mother’s beef stroganoff. He has a perfect map of Moscow in his mind. And he’s still thinking all these thoughts in Russian. 

Eliot blinks. “Quentin?”

It’s too much; his head is screaming and screeching, like listening to five albums at full volume simultaneously. But it’s the pain that finally anchors him - the grief of everyone he’s lost, howling and consuming, so much larger than his body - that _has_ to be real. 

“ _Fuck,”_ Quentin says, and it’s the first thing he’s said with an American accent. _“_ Eliot?” 

“Yeah. It’s me, again. For real.” He tilts his head a little, lost and confused, a curl falling across his forehead. “At least, I think it is.”

“Jesus. What the hell was all that? I believed it, I could _feel_ it, I have memories and training and a family and—“

“—and it still feels real.”

Quentin stares at him, still and careful. “Yeah.”

Eliot swallows, his throat bobbing sharply, and he studiously looks anywhere except at Quentin’s face. “I’m sorry I almost shot you.”

“Fuck, El, I _cut_ you. If anybody should be apologizing—“

“—so let’s just…not. It’s just the monster’s bullshit, right?”

Quentin feels like gelatin that hasn’t quite set, shaky and malleable. He’s no longer sure that he’s a man made of solid flesh and bone, muscle and matter. He’s become something moldable, something the monster can shake up and pour into whatever form it chooses. 

But he doesn’t know how to acknowledge any of that without the earth opening up beneath his feet and swallowing him whole, without losing his last tenuous grip on reality and sanity, and he can’t suck Eliot into that endless void with him.

So he just says, “Right. It’s бред сивой кобылы.” 

He doesn’t realize his mistake until Eliot takes half a step back, unconsciously. 

Quentin’s fingers curl into tight fists and he shakes his head, forcing his brain to translate the word. “Bullshit. It’s _bullshit,_ El.”

Eliot nods and, in one of the more impressive feats of magic Quentin has ever seen him do, conjures up a smile from somewhere. It’s even halfway believable. 

“Okay then. You want to go get a drink, figure this out? I do; I need a drink.” He rests his hand on the back of Quentin’s neck, steering them toward a nearby cafe. “I need a whole goddamned bottle.”

* * *

A couple of hours drinking red wine in the warm Roman sun has not improved Quentin’s whole not-feeling-solid issue - if anything, he’s even looser and less coherent. But he no longer gives much of a shit, so it feels like an even trade.

Eliot’s undone a few buttons at the top of his bloodstained shirt and produced a pair of Clubmaster sunglasses from somewhere. They hide his blackened right eye, and the busted knuckles wrapped around his wineglass have finally stopped bleeding. He’s draped himself over his chair in a way that looks long and liquid, like it would be better suited to a swath of silk than a human body.

He’s the embodiment of the word _insouciance._

And it’s a look Quentin wants to obliterate - either with a fist or a kiss, he’s not sure. 

_That’s not true,_ he tells himself. _You don’t want to hurt him; that’s just the monster’s bullshit. This is Eliot. You know what he means to you. Everything else is just бред сивой кобылы._

But telling himself that doesn’t change the way he feels in the slightest. 

“So what are we going to do now?” Quentin asks, hoping to distract himself. He speaks carefully, trying (and utterly failing) to avoid slurring his words. 

“I’m going to order another bottle,” Eliot answers.

“I mean about this life. The whole personality reboot thing. It’s too much; it’s like what Fogg did. I can’t stand it.”

Eliot shrugs. “I’ve been pondering it, and I think our only option is to go along with it. Act out the story.” Quentin’s whole face contorts in protest, but Eliot just holds up a hand. “Hear me out. We’ve always just kind of done what _we_ would do in each scenario, not what other characters would do. My guess is that’s why the monster took such drastic measures - we weren’t being proper actors.”

This doesn’t seem like enough of a solution to Quentin, or maybe it’s too much of one. It means he won’t even be able to think and behave as himself, and that’s compromising too much. He’ll be giving up the last shred of autonomy he’d tried to preserve in this cage. 

But he’d do anything to keep from living another life like this one, where he doesn’t know who he is, doesn’t know who Eliot is, doesn’t know that none of it is real. 

And he still can’t see any way to escape.

“Fine,” he says, spitting the word like it’s a swear before knocking back the last of the wine in his glass. “I think my character’s storyline is the mission, right? We’re supposed to take out The Destroyer.”

Eliot tears off a small piece of bread, dips it in olive oil, and pops it into his mouth. Chewing, he says, “The American intel had other aliases listed for her. ‘The Widowmaker,’ ‘The Poison Pussy,’ and a charming little Dutch phrase that I believe translates loosely to ‘Tiny Bitch-Queen of Hell.’ Knowing what I know now…”

“It’s Margo.”

Eliot nods. 

“We’re supposed to kill The Destroyer,” Quentin says, staring hard at Eliot and trying to make his wine-soaked brain focus. "Is that going to be a problem?” 

He’s not sure what he wants the answer to be. One will make their lives easier right now. The other will make him question how much the monster has changed Eliot’s core personality, wonder how much influence the monster has over him from here on out. 

“It’s not really Margo,” Eliot eventually says, washing down the bread with a generous mouthful of wine. It’s stained his lips a little, turning them into a deep crimson slash against his teeth. “It’s just magic. We can kill magic; we’ve done it before.”

Quentin orders another bottle.

* * *

They get a posh suite in the city’s nicest hotel on the CIA’s dime, but they’re too drunk by the time they check in to do anything other than pass out. And just before the darkness claims Quentin, he hears Eliot start softly snoring.

A wave of relief washes over him.

Because he would never admit it, but there’s too much of the implanted personality and emotions swirling inside him to be able to even _touch_ Eliot here. 

The idea of it repulses him, and then he’s disgusted by his own repulsion - a nightmare cycle spinning tighter and tighter, deeper and deeper, leading him into a fitful, restless sleep.

* * *

Late the next morning, sitting on their balcony in fluffy white robes eating a room service brunch of fruit, pastries, cappuccinos, and Bellinis, they plan Margo’s murder.

Well, it’s mostly Eliot doing the planning, Quentin quietly nursing his hangover and nodding along - at least, until Eliot says, “Don’t worry about the rest; I can keep her distracted,” with that distant heat in his eyes like he’s evaluating a race horse he’s contemplating purchasing. 

Quentin is intimately familiar with that look.

“Really? I didn’t think you guys ever did that without a third or as part of an orgy or something. It’s not really your thing, is it?”

“Everything’s my thing, as long as I’m in the right mood. And for something this important? I can be in the right fucking mood.”

Which is how Eliot winds up in a busy intersection an hour later, his long legs uncomfortably cramped inside the Fiat he stole twenty minutes ago, driving in endless circles as he waits for Margo to arrive. She comes through here several times a week according to the case file he memorized, and today is no exception - there she is, riding a gleaming red Vespa with a matching helmet on her head and an Hermès scarf knotted around her neck, the ends trailing behind her like twin banners of elegance and power. 

From his post down the street, observing behind a newspaper, Quentin watches for her security. He counts three bodyguards in a car following her; that shouldn’t be a problem. He folds the paper and walks away, giving Eliot the signal.

It’s on.

The traffic in Rome is, as always, thick and incomprehensible, so it’s utterly believable when Eliot skillfully bumps the front fender of the Fiat into the back of Margo’s bike.

“Mi scusi, signora,” he says, all hapless American tourist as he climbs out of the car, tan and smiling, “I am so sorry; I didn’t mean to hit you.” 

Margo slides her enormous round sunglasses down her nose and peers at him over the top rim, evaluating. “Yes, you did.” 

And just like that Eliot’s smile changes, cutting wider across his handsome face, teeth white and glinting under the Italian sun. He looks _sharper_ somehow - a predator recognizing one of its own kind. 

“The question,” Margo says, scanning him slow and deliberate, “is why.” 

Eliot tilts his head a little, puts some heat into his gaze. “Surely men have done crazier things to get your attention.” 

“Certainly. But they don’t usually live to see the morning.” 

“I’m willing to risk it.” 

Margo laughs once, delighted. “You should. I’m worth it.”

She abandons the wrecked Vespa and climbs into the car with her bodyguards, tugging Eliot in behind her.

It’s not exactly how they’d planned for things to go, but it works well enough - Margo takes Eliot back to her apartment, and she ushers him straight into her bedroom. 

It’s so easy that it’s making Quentin nervous from his perch on the edge of a roof across the street, stretched out and watching the master bedroom of Margo’s penthouse apartment through his rifle’s scope. He’s already calculated the distance, angles, windspeed, and resistance from the glass of the closed windows - he knows exactly where he has to aim in order to kill anyone in the room. 

And he’s only slightly unsettled that he knows how to do all of that.

He checks his watch, and forces his heartbeat to keep steady pace with the ticking second hand. It’s not quite time yet. 

But Eliot is slightly ahead of schedule, already down to just his trousers and undershirt, Margo staring at him like a lion watches a gazelle.

She doesn’t know that it’s actually the other way around. 

Eliot gestures to her security guards - all three of them, still stationed inside the bedroom. Quentin can read his lips when he asks, “Why don’t you tell them to give us some privacy?” 

“Because I believe in safe sex,” Margo answers, smile sharp. “And there’s nothing safer than having three bodyguards watching me fuck. Besides,” she trails a perfectly-manicured fingernail up Eliot’s neck, then winds her fingers into his hair and yanks hard enough to angle his head, “I like an audience.”

“Whatever the lady prefers,” Eliot says, and pulls her to him with one hand on the back of her neck, the other squeezing her ass. 

This isn’t how it was supposed to go - Quentin was supposed to take out Margo from here when he had a clean shot - but they’ll have to make it work. They won’t get another chance, so they’ll follow their contingency plan. Quentin will take down the bodyguards before they can figure out where the sniper fire is coming from, and Eliot will take care of Margo himself. 

It should be fine.

Because Eliot’s looking at Margo like she’s just a random target, a goal to accomplish, a problem to eliminate. And this, more than anything, makes Quentin realize just how abjectly _wrong_ this place is, how much it has changed them. Because this isn’t how things should be. He knows what Eliot and Margo have, what they mean to each other.

Eliot has always looked at her with the same expression he uses in the mirror - because while Quentin may be his soulmate, Margo is a piece of his actual _soul._  

And now he’s kissing her with his eyes open, simply going through the motions until Quentin takes out her security.

And then he’s going to kill her.

Quentin swallows. It’s not Margo. It’s _not._

Something solidifies in his mind, strengthening the implanted personality, weakening the others. Whether it’s the monster meddling or a byproduct of having to access his KGB sniper training, he doesn’t know.

And there’s no point in analyzing. He’s trapped. He’s a puppet.

Time for the show.

Quentin places the crosshairs of his rifle over one of the bodyguard’s foreheads - he’s tall, pale, balding, and sweating a little at the exhibition happening in front of him. Quentin wishes he wasn’t; the half-erection he’s failing to hide makes him seem all too human. But it doesn’t matter. Quentin exhales, slowly, feeling his heart rate steady, and then squeezes the trigger.

The room explodes into gore and sound and chaos, but he was prepared for that. He takes out the next guard without any real conscious thought - aim, squeeze, move on - and fires at the last one just before he draws his gun. 

It’s not a clean hit. 

Quentin winged him, the bullet carving a chunk out of the juncture between his neck and shoulder judging by the violent blood spray spurting like a fountain, painting the pale yellow walls a bright splattered crimson.

_Fuck._ He won't be a threat - he’s mortally wounded, no doctor in the world could save someone after arterial spray like that - but it’s messy, and Eliot hates messy. 

Quentin has a wild moment of wondering how he knows that, thinking only of that KGB file, and then he remembers Eliot fussing over a pair of their son’s Fillorian breeches for two whole days trying to get out the stain of caked-on mud.

And while those images war inside his head, another acts itself out in front of his eyes - one of Eliot brutally, mercilessly choking the life out of Margo. Her mouth moves like a goldfish Quentin thinks he might have had as a childhood pet - some version of Quentin, anyway; it feels as real as anything else here. Her fingers grasp and scratch at Eliot’s hands and arms and face, but he doesn’t move. He’s like a glorious Greek statue, beautiful and cold and impenetrably hard. 

It’s _wrong,_ that’s not who Eliot is, especially not when it comes to Margo, but Quentin only knows this in an intellectual sense. He can’t actually feel it. Not here. Not anymore. 

He watches with dispassionate detachment as Margo stops fighting, her lovely face blue and swollen, her eyes rolling and then going still, dark and vacant and quiet.

The Destroyer has been destroyed. Mission accomplished. 

And twenty minutes later Quentin is standing on the balcony of their Roman hotel suite, clinking a gin and tonic against Eliot’s, ice cubes tinkling.

Coming down off the adrenaline high has left him drained, shaky and exhausted and empty. He licks his lips and asks the easiest of the questions that’s been plaguing him. 

“How long do you think the monster has had us trapped? Months?”

Eliot swallows. He’s got a lit cigarette between his fingers and it’s trembling, ash drifting onto the toes of his shoes. “Feels more like a year, at least.”

“Then happy anniversary, yet again.” Quentin can’t keep the hollowness out of his voice, or the bitterness. He’s just…lost. Defeated. Hopeless. “Or tenth anniversary. Or hundredth. It’s not like we can trust our own memories. I mean, how many lifetimes do you think have been like this? That we didn’t even know who we are?”

The sunset is painting Eliot a warm shade of pink and he stares at it, unblinking. “What’s the last one you remember?”

Quentin searches his memories, navigating around cracks and potholes and wrong turns. “ _Cheers,_ I think. You were a bartender; I was Cliff. We were happy.”

“That’s what I remember, too - so I think this one must be the first time the monster tried to erase our identities.” Eliot straightens his shoulders and pastes on that charming smile, clinking their frosty glasses together again. “And, see? Even when it makes us mortal enemies, we find a way around it. Love wins.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, taking a sip to hide the fact that he can’t smile back. “Nothing to worry about at all.”

He doesn’t mention the way that his fingers haven’t stopped itching for that knife in his boot, the one crusted in Eliot’s dried blood. 

Not for a second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful and talented Alex provided translation assistance - Большое спасибо <3


	8. Evil Bloodsucking Fiend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any triggers involving blood, self-harm, or sex and violence, it’s probably best if you skip this chapter.

Tombstones stretch in rows like broken, crooked teeth, dotted here and there with statues of weeping angels and hulking mausoleums. It’s dark and sinister, fog lying close to the ground and faintly glowing under the silvery starlight. The bare, knobby silhouettes of winter trees stretch toward the sky like the bony fingers of a crone’s hand reaching for the swollen, yellow moon.

The night is the kind of cool that verges on actual _cold_ , the air thick and moist and dense, but from his place behind the enormous slab of a crumbling headstone, Quentin barely registers that. All he can sense is the heat of Eliot’s skin, the insistent throb of his aliveness standing there, like a statue carved by one of the ancient masters, flawless marble come to life. It calls to him, singing in some ancient language that only his bones speak, and he’s drawn forward across the brown, dormant grass on silent cat feet.

He steps around the nearest angel sculpture and appears barely a breath from Eliot’s face.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Eliot says, jumping back. “Stop that. This place is way too ominous for you to go around being creepy.” He gestures vaguely at everything with a half-hearted wave that freezes halfway through, his eyes narrowing at Quentin. “Wait. Who do you think you are?”

Quentin steps forward, hooking his fingertips in the waist of Eliot’s pants. “I’m Quentin,” he says, looking up at him from beneath his dark eyelashes.

Eliot takes another step back, sliding out of Quentin’s reach. “Sorry, but after the last one I’m going to need a little more than that, _Comrade_.”

Quentin sighs with his whole body, deflating. “Fine. I’m Quentin Coldwater, depressed super-nerd turned magician turned Fillorian king turned mosaic designer turned college professor turned monumentally fucked son of a bitch stuck inside a monster’s television.” He shoves his hair out of his eyes. “You?”

Eliot smiles and relaxes, his posture easing into its usual studied languor as he crowds back into Quentin’s personal space. “Essentially the same, but with far more style.”

“Okay, so we’re still us. That’s something, I guess.” Quentin trails his fingers over the rough edge of the nearest headstone. “Any idea what we’re supposed to be doing here?”

A snarl and a blur of motion are the only warning they get before a vampire leaps at them from behind a mausoleum. She’s fast and fierce, all glistening fangs and a cloud of blonde hair, and she’s got her teeth in the side of Eliot’s neck before he can even fully process what’s happening. 

And then there’s blood, hot and slick and ruby red, and it’s suddenly all Quentin can see. He can _smell_ it, along with the leather of Eliot’s jacket and the dry leaves crumbling under his shoes and the cigarettes in his pocket and the salty sheen of sweat on his skin. And he can hear Eliot’s heartbeat, fast and solid as he shoves the vampire off and pulls a stake from his coat pocket, stabbing her through the heart.

She screams but the sound is cut short by her entire body disintegrating into dust.

And then Eliot’s just standing there _laughing_ , twirling the stake, his other hand clapped over the open wound on his neck.

“Oh, my god, I’m Buffy,” he breathes. “Or Van Helsing. Or maybe one of those guys from _Supernatural_ , or _True_ _Blood_ , or even the _Vampire_ _Diaries._ ” He’s rambling, his adrenaline and excitement stripping away his carefully cool facade and leaving him in a very un-Eliot-like state. “That was _incredible!_ I think it was the most fun I’ve ever had sober and fully clothed.”

He dissolves into laughter again, kissing the stake before sticking it back into his pocket.

And normally Quentin lives for these rare glimpses into the unvarnished truth of Eliot - but right now, he is not sharing in the joy. 

Not at all.

Instead, Quentin has dropped back, lurking in the deep shadows as he lets the puzzle pieces start to fall into place - and they’re forming a vivid, terrible, unavoidable picture. He turns away from Eliot and shuts his eyes, raising his shaking fingers to roam over the razor sharp fangs in his mouth. 

_Holy fuck, I’m a vampire._

Which is a strange thing to realize, but not as strange as what comes next. Because he knows, as soon as he thinks the words, that he’s not going to tell Eliot. 

He’s going to keep it a secret.

It’s stupid, and weird, and he doesn’t know why. But something inside him is screaming and desperate, something too primal and instinctive to ignore.

And Eliot, oblivious to Quentin’s latest personal crisis, has far better things to be thinking about.

“Fuck, Q. _Fuck.”_ With one hand still clamped over his jagged neck wound, he grabs Quentin’s lapel with the other. “There are _vampires_ here. Do you know what that means?”

Quentin retracts his fangs and swallows all his panic; when he speaks it sounds flat and normal. “That we should start investing in crosses and turtlenecks?”

“How very George Michael of you,” Eliot says, moving close enough that Quentin can feel the heat radiating off of him. 

 _He’s so warm,_ Quentin thinks, _how can he be so warm?_

Quentin can’t _stand_ it. 

“No,” Eliot clarifies, with his biggest, most honest grin. “It means there might be some form of _magic_ here.”

And now Quentin is listening, really listening. He looks up at him, frozen and breathless, momentarily forgetting about the existential horror unfolding around him. 

Because if there’s magic here, they might finally be able to get _free._ This shit could end. For real. For _good._

Quentin blinks and twitches and starts casting the first thing he can think of, the fireworks spell he tried to show Julia in the Scarlotti’s Web a million years ago. 

But he knows before he even finishes that it won’t work; he doesn’t feel it thrumming through his veins or sparking in his muscles. He wonders if that means that there’s no magic after all, or if it’s simply due to his whole undead situation. 

“You try something,” he says dejectedly.

But Eliot’s already shaking his head. “It wouldn’t be our kind of magic, not real magic. But it might be chanting-and-potions-and-wands type of shit, and if it’s real _here,_ it might be real enough to help us.” He looks around a little, furtively, wondering how closely the monster is watching them. “We should look into it,” he whispers.

He loops one arm around Quentin’s shoulders, oblivious to the still-bloody state of his open wound, or how sensitive Quentin’s nose is, or how sharp his teeth are. “Can you imagine it, Q? We might actually be able to use this place to get back home. And in the meantime, I get to be a _slayer._ ” He shakes his head a little. “I can’t wait to tell Bambi - she’s going to be so jealous.”

Quentin _can’t_ imagine it, actually; they’ve been stuck so long that he’s unsure what kind of world they’d even be going back to. Is it the same decade? The same _century_? “Do you think they’re still—“ he nearly says _alive,_ then thinks about Eliot’s face when he watched the zombies eat Margo, “—okay? Everyone back home?”

Eliot nods, but he also swallows, like he’s trying to keep what he really wants to say buried deep inside. “I think the fact that the monster has had us in here for so long is a good sign. If we’re keeping it entertained, it has no reason to go after any of them.”

Something finally occurs to Quentin, something he should have thought of long ago. “Is that why you’ve been so reluctant to really confront what’s happening to us? To try to find a way to escape?”

Eliot’s thumb is rubbing absent circles over Quentin’s shoulder, slow and steady and comforting. “Maybe.”

“But you’re ready to try now?”

“I said we’d keep our eyes peeled for an opportunity to get out; this may very well be one. I don’t want to waste it.”

Quentin sighs, and he can’t decide if he’s relieved or terrified; he wonders briefly if it’s possible to be both simultaneously. “Me neither.” 

Without thinking, he reaches up to lace his fingers through Eliot’s where they dangle over his shoulder. He’s done it more times than he can count, in hundreds of lifetimes; Eliot’s hand is as familiar to him as his own. 

But he wasn’t trying to conceal the fact that he’s _dead_ any of those other times.

“Fuck, Q, you’re freezing,” Eliot says, pulling away and somehow shrugging out of his jacket while barely dislodging the hand pressed to his bleeding neck. “Here, put this on.”

 _Shit,_ Quentin thinks, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides. Thirty seconds of trying to keep a secret from Eliot and, in true Coldwater fashion, he’s already fucking it up. 

This isn’t going to be easy. 

“No, I’m okay, really. You’re wounded; you keep it.”

“You are not okay. Your fingers feel like frozen chicken cutlets.”

Quentin stops short, frowning as he lifts the coat from Eliot’s outstretched hand. “Wow, what a sexy simile. Thanks,” he deadpans, pulling on the jacket, cuffing the too-long sleeves hanging over his hands.

* * *

They walk on in companionable silence for several minutes.

And as they weave their way through the graveyard, they studiously ignore the empty grave they pass, and they don’t listen to the ghostly whispers in their ears or watch the phantom orb lights drifting at the periphery of their vision. 

But it’s enough to tell them that Eliot was right. That there’s something here, something that feels a lot like magic. 

And with it, the almost forgotten sensation of _hope._

* * *

Eventually they make their way out of the strange, enormous cemetery, the fog weirdly stopping as soon as they pass through the old iron gates.

And find themselves in the middle of suburbia.

It’s a fairly modern setting, at least - they’re in jeans and t-shirts and leather jackets, even if the cut and style is a little different than they’re used to. Neither one has a phone, but they don’t need one. Eliot knows where to go. 

“Come on,” he says, raising Quentin’s still-cold hand to his warm lips. “Let’s go home.”

Quentin, half out of his mind with hunger and desire, asks, “Do you know where that is?”

“Don’t you?”

He searches his monster-implanted memories and sees a dirty crypt with cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and dry leaves piled in the far corner. He can remember how the stone slab feels beneath his spine as he sleeps the day away in the damp darkness, the smell of a rotting, bloodless corpse in the far corner. 

“I don’t think we live together here,” he finally says. 

“Well, we do tonight.” Eliot’s still putting pressure on the wound on his neck, and he bends down to murmur in Quentin’s ear. “I need you to kiss me and make it all better.” 

In answer, Quentin just gives him a tight-lipped smile.

* * *

Eliot’s quiet for most of the walk, preoccupied with keeping his bleeding to a minimum as he winds through the dark, quiet streets, searching for the right house.

It gives Quentin time to process the worst of his initial shock and begin to notice other things. Like how well he can see in the dark, and how strong he feels, how _fast._ His whole body seems different here -  lighter, looser, like it’s accustomed to being a body and knows how to do that. (Which seems stupid to think of in that way - his body should _always_ feel like this - but it doesn’t.) It usually feels like an awkward meat puppet that his brain is too busy and anxious to devote many resources to controlling, leaving him fumbling his way through life. 

Except not now, not when every footfall feels sure and deliberate and powerful, when his arms swing with loose hands instead of twitching fingers, his shoulders square and straight. It feels unfamiliar and stolen, but pleasant.

His body is his; no, it _is_ him. He’s in every square centimeter, in his toes and thighs and belly button and biceps. Regular Quentin feels all caged up inside his head, but vampire Quentin knows how to spread out and relax a little. 

He wonders if this is how Eliot always feels. He _knows_ it’s how Margo feels.

It’s kind of amazing.

But it’s so foreign that he begins to fight it, slouching a bit, just to make sure that Eliot doesn’t notice. Quentin feels like it might as well be a neon sign hanging around his neck: _Too confident. Clearly an evil bloodsucking fiend_.

* * *

Ten minutes later Eliot turns up the front walk of an old Victorian home, unlocking the front door with keys he finds in his pocket. The hinges squeak as it slowly swings open and he steps into the dark, cool interior. An enormous grandfather clock chimes morosely at the end of the hall.

And Quentin tries to follow, but it’s as if he’s walked into a glass door - a hard, invisible barrier is blocking his way.

 _Shit._ Apparently the whole vampires-have-to-be-invited-in thing applies here _._

Eliot’s halfway down the front hall when he turns back, staring at Quentin with a questioning eyebrow. “Are you just going to stand there all night? Come on, I’m actively bleeding out here.”

It’s not exactly an invitation, but it must be close enough - Quentin steps one hesitant foot across the threshold, then rushes the rest of the way inside.

Eliot leads him through the dark, creaking old house with a hand wrapped around his (which Quentin is starting to feel guilty about, like he doesn’t quite deserve it). They eventually stop at a small bathroom upstairs, digging a first aid kit out from beneath the sink. Eliot presses it into Quentin’s hands.

“I could use a little help,” he says softly, finally dropping his hand from his neck. 

And Quentin can see the extent of the damage now, the deep puncture marks and the clotted blood crusting over them. He’s disgusted and turned on and hungry all at the same time, and he has to force himself to look away. 

Eliot takes the opportunity to push himself up onto the counter, trapping Quentin’s hips between his knees, staring at him in a quiet, soft, patient manner. 

Which Quentin misses entirely. 

Because, in the wall-sized mirror before him, there’s nothing reflected but Eliot’s back and a floating first-aid kit, red with a white cross, like a Swiss flag flying on a non-existent breeze. 

Quentin is gone.

He looks down at his pale hands, just to make sure he really is here, and then tries to see their shape in the mirror. Or their color. Or their shadow.

Nothing. He’s a vampire; he casts no reflection.

So Quentin has finally become truly invisible, in a way, but it doesn’t feel anything like he’d hoped it would. It scalds and curdles in his stomach; it’s hollow and alienating. And he _hates_ it. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and pulls himself together out of sheer force of will, because his feelings are not what’s important right now; Eliot’s injury is. So he opens the first aid kit with shaking hands, extracting disinfecting wipes and clean bandages, and deliberately focuses on trying to make Eliot whole again. 

His skin is warm under Quentin’s trembling hands, and Eliot flinches a little at the touch of room-temperature flesh. “Still cold?” He asks, capturing Quentin’s hands in his, rubbing them and blowing hot air across his fingers. “I’m sorry. We’ll turn up the heat when we get done here.”

Quentin just nods, carefully reclaiming his hands, and shakily exhales. 

In the close space and harsh light of the bathroom everything seems amplified, echoing and multiplying until all that exists is Eliot, Quentin, and the wound between them. 

He will not listen to the part of him that relishes the sight of the wound, that’s aching for a taste of Eliot’s blood.

He _will not._

Eliot’s gentle, elegant fingers hook into his waistband, tracing tenderly under his T-shirt and jacket and up the firm line of his side, soothing over ribs and down the trail of dark hair leading to Quentin’s navel. It’s a touch meant to be quieting and calming, Eliot sensing Quentin’s anxiety without knowing exactly why it’s there.

Quentin takes a shallow breath through his mouth, trying to think of anything except what he’s doing. Trying to think about who he really is, who Eliot is, and what they have together. 

And, after just a moment, his hands are finally steady. He feels okay; he thinks he can make it through this. 

He rests one hand against Eliot’s shoulder, letting the solid warmth ground him, and presses an alcohol swab to the wound. 

He knows the instant that it reopens. 

It’s only the tiniest amount, but a bead of fresh blood wells up, sitting at the ragged edge of Eliot’s flesh.

And the smell is overwhelming; all Quentin can see is red. He hisses and feels his fangs descend but there’s nothing he can do to stop it, like he’s fourteen and getting random hard-ons in math class again. 

Under his hands, Eliot goes very, very still. 

“Well, Q, you know how much I like a little teeth sometimes, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to adopt a no-biting policy in this reality.” 

It’s cool and flirtatious, with nowhere near enough concern for his own wellbeing - exactly the way Quentin knew Eliot would handle this. It’s wonderful, it’s the best reaction possible, but that doesn’t matter to Quentin. His first instinct - his only instinct - is to hide it. 

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t care. He’s an alcoholic whose partner just found the stash of empty vodka bottles in the back of his closet. He has to undo it.

And he suddenly knows that he _can._

He leans in close, keeping steady, unbroken eye contact with Eliot’s dark gaze. He keeps his voice even, every word carefully enunciated. 

“Everything is fine; I’m not a vampire. I’m just Q, the same as always, your boring boyfriend who loves you.” 

It works, of course - he knew that it would. He could sense that he has some sort of thrall, or hypnotism, or mind control ability. He doesn’t know what to call it. 

He just knows how to use it.

Eliot blinks, sort of dreamily, and rests his hand on top of Quentin’s on the counter.

“Of course you are.” And he smiles, but there’s nothing else behind it. No hidden meaning, no sarcasm or teasing or any of the many layers that make Eliot _Eliot._ He’s a hollow, Eliot-shaped vacuum.

Quentin wants to vomit. 

Because of course he doesn’t want to do this. Messing with Eliot’s mind and memories  makes him no better than the monster itself - and there’s no reason for it. Eliot is his home, his safe space, his person. He would understand this - hell, knowing Eliot, he might even get turned on by it. But Quentin can’t stop himself. It’s a compulsion, a drive, an addiction. It has to stay secret. He has to protect it at all costs.

Even this one. This horrible one.

And he knows that what’s happening here isn’t the same as what he’s faced before. It isn’t like the English accent or the cartoon or forcing him to fight a losing zombie war. It’s not even a mind-wipe like when he was a spy - Quentin knows who he is, he knows what he is. So this is something closer to possession; this is something evil in the fiber of his muscles and the snap of his tendons, in his tongue and teeth and toes, in the electrical spark between his synapses and crouching inside his every cell. 

He’s just not sure if that evil is the monster controlling the tv, or the vampire that’s inside of him.

Eliot blinks at him again and his face seems to fill back up, resuming its normal expression. “Hello? You still with me, Q? I know blood makes you a little squeamish—”

“—No,” Quentin says, quickly, shaking himself a little and getting back to the business of patching Eliot up. “No, I’m fine.”

He ends up holding his breath through the whole process, praying to whatever it is that listens to the soulless undead that Eliot won’t notice how still his chest is. And it works - in just a minute, a bandage is taped to Eliot’s neck and the blood-streaked wipe is disposed of in the garbage can. 

“I’m sorry,” Quentin finally mutters when he can breathe enough to speak again. 

“It’s not like _you_ attacked me. It’s just this thing we’re stuck in,” Eliot sighs, raking his fingers back through Quentin’s hair, then leaning in to press their foreheads together. Quentin is nearly vibrating with how hard he’s restraining himself. “At least we’re ourselves this time.” 

Quentin, thoroughly miserable, doesn’t bother to answer. He just walks out of the bathroom, surreptitiously licking a smear of blood from his fingers, and begins rifling through the linen closet in the hall. He pulls out a pillow and blanket so he can bed down on the couch—

—until Eliot intervenes. “What are you doing? You’re sleeping with me.” 

“I don’t think that’s a great idea, El, you’re hurt and I’m—” 

“I didn’t say we were fucking. I said we were sleeping.” 

And Quentin, as hopeless as ever at denying Eliot something he wants, winds up curled with him under soft sheets and worn blankets in Eliot’s top floor bedroom. The heater is straining, battling against the cold night and drafty old house, so they’re huddled together for warmth - though Quentin’s skin doesn’t offer any. 

A biting wind whistles through the window sash and makes a tree branch scrape at the frost on the dark glass, the sound slow and persistent, fingernails trying to claw their way inside. 

But Eliot’s too excited to notice. 

“I think this is the one, Q. I think this is the chance we’ve been waiting for. There’s magic here, I can feel it, and it’s strong; _we’re_ strong. So we’re going to find out how to use it, and tomorrow I undertake my greatest role to date.” His voice goes dramatic and theatrical, “That of the great Steve McQueen, in his iconic film _The Great Escape._ ”

Eliot kisses him, quick and fierce and joyous. Quentin is careful to keep his fangs well out of the way.

It doesn’t go any further than that - Eliot slings an arm around Quentin’s waist and settles in for sleep, drifting off quickly despite his excitement. The injury and burn of adrenaline have left him exhausted and empty.

But Quentin doesn’t sleep for a second, tortured by the smell of Eliot’s blood all night and listening to the siren song of his heartbeat, the rush through his veins like the echo inside a seashell. He’s torn between two diametrically opposing scenarios at the same time - Eliot safe and healthy and breathing beside him, and Eliot slashed open, consumed, inhaled, thrumming inside of Quentin, hot and rich and salty. 

* * *

Early morning sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains like a laser, burning and blistering. It sends Quentin falling to the floor in a pile of tattered blankets, skin smoking as he scrabbles to the doorway, hissing in pain until he’s safely hidden in the darkness of the hall.

Back in the bed, Eliot stirs a little, sighing and rolling over in the twisted sheets. Quentin does _not_ want to have to repeat last night’s little mind-control trick, so he crouches, gasping as quietly as he can while desperately trying to come up with a quick plan, cursing himself for wasting the whole night instead of preparing for this. 

He ends up grabbing a towel from the bathroom and using it to shield his exposed skin, fumbling his way downstairs into the half bathroom in the center of the house. 

The one with no windows.

He slams the door shut, throws the lock, and jams the towel into the tiny space beneath the door until no trace of light makes its way through.

And he stays there, silently hating himself as he sits on the cold, hard tile for the better part of an hour. 

Until he hears Eliot’s steps on the creaking staircase. 

Quentin takes a deep breath of the dark air and hopes he’s a better actor than he’d told the monster he was so long ago, then loudly mimes the sounds of vomiting and flushes the toilet.

It must be convincing enough, because Eliot knocks lightly on the door moments later. “Q? You all right in there? It sounds like the tragedy of the spoiled Fillorian sea bass all over again.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Quentin croaks, trying to sound like his throat is inflamed. “I’m, uh, I’m sick, I guess. You should just go on without me.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave if you need—“

“We’re supposed to be playing our parts, right? Besides, if your theory is correct and magic exists here in some form, you should go find Alice and Julia. They’ll definitely know how to use it.”

“Can I do anything for you first? I mean, I’m not the greatest at the whole holding-your-hair-back-while-you-puke thing, but I could bring you a hair tie. Or, I don’t know, get you some whiskey or a sexy Swedish masseuse or something.”

“No, really, it’s okay. You go. If I start feeling better later, I’ll catch up.”

A horn honks outside, and in that magical monster-knowledge they’re always granted, they both know that it’s Margo in her convertible, picking Eliot up for classes like she does every morning. 

“Well, okay. If you’re sure, I’ll go ask around, maybe try the library on campus.” He rests his fingers against the door; Quentin can hear his skin brushing against the wood, smell the increase of his scent. He’s so hungry that it makes his fangs descend. “Wish me luck,” Eliot murmurs.

“Wish me no more dry heaving.”

Eliot leaves, and Quentin waits until he hears Margo’s car pull away before he sags against the bathroom cabinet, staring into the empty blackness before him. He’s incalculably grateful that his ruse worked. Because if he’d had to brainwash Eliot into believing everything was fine again, he’s not sure he’d ever be able to look at his reflection when he gets it back.

 _If_ he gets his reflection back. _If_. 

Because Eliot is, at this very moment, beginning his clandestine search for magic that could break them out of here for good. 

And something occurred to Quentin in the middle of the night, between bouts of fighting off murderous impulses and wallowing in self-loathing. If they escape now, it only stands to reason that they will be escaping _in their current forms._ That’s not a problem for Eliot - he’s just stronger and faster here, with some fighting and weapons skills that could only be a benefit back in their real lives. And sure, his hair’s a little shorter than it was before they left, but it’ll grow (and Quentin secretly thinks it looks better this way).

But for Quentin? He’d stay a vampire. He’d spend the rest of his eternal life hiding alone in the dark. He’d always want to eat his friends, and he couldn’t be close to Eliot _ever again_ without putting him in danger. 

No, he can’t stay like this. They can’t escape now - not unless Quentin can find some way to change himself first.

* * *

Twenty minutes later and, with the assistance of his now-somewhat-aflame towel, Quentin has managed to hop from shadow to shadow well enough to get himself cleaned up and dressed in fresh clothes. (They’re Eliot’s, so he’s had to roll the sleeves and pant legs, feeling like a child playing dress-up.) But he’s halfway presentable and has followed his instincts down into the cellar of the house, old enough that it still has a dirt floor.

It’s also, blessedly, almost completely dark. The only light is the thin band of sunlight trickling under the door at the top of the stairs, along with the glowing embers of the towel’s remains (the dash across the sunny kitchen really did it in).

He would like to resign himself to a day spent down here in the dank, damp earth where he belongs, but he can’t afford even that luxury now. Eliot can be frighteningly effective when he really applies himself to something, so he’s probably going to find a way to get them out of here. Which means that Quentin has to find a way to get himself back before that happens. 

He should be able to do that; he managed to fight off the mind-wipe of the last reality. Getting his body back will be easy in comparison…he hopes.

_Come on Quentin, summon some of that confidence from yesterday._

He rolls his neck, flexes his hands.

He can do this. 

He can _definitely_ do this _._

He…has to figure out how get out of here without bursting into flames.

Thankfully, that proves to be relatively simple - he simply follows his nose to a hole in the far corner, rough and freshly dug. It’s just big enough to wiggle through, probably an expansion of an old drainage pipe since it drops straight down into the sewer tunnels. He’s not sure if Vampire Quentin dug it in order to try to sneak into Eliot’s bedroom before he realized he had to be invited or if Slayer Eliot dug it in order to slip into the tunnels and hunt undetected. It doesn’t really matter; he shrugs and lowers himself into it.

His boots splash in the shallow water, and for once he’s grateful to be on the short side since it means he doesn’t have to duck under the tunnel’s low ceiling. There’s the squeaking scuttle of rats nearby, but they keep to the edges and his vampire sight is good enough that he can easily avoid them even without a flashlight.

In the sewers, everything is dark and damp and magnified - the foul smells, the distant splash of moving water and scurrying of squirming rats. It’s lonely and dark and repulsive and Quentin hates it, mostly because some part of him feels like he deserves it. Like he _should_ be down here with the filth, separate and feared and despised. 

He draws close to grates a couple of times, the sunlight weak and distant but enough to make his skin smoke; still, it’s almost worth it to hear sounds of life - children playing on sidewalks, snippets of conversation as people stroll by. His sense of smell is so powerful that he could probably use it to follow Eliot to campus, eavesdrop on him and all their friends this way, but he won’t. It would only confirm the way he feels.

Like a creep. 

So instead, he makes his way to the city library, coming in through an access tunnel in the boiler room. 

He finds a clerk repairing bookbindings in the far corner of the basement, and it’s easy enough to hypnotize her into bringing him every resource they have on vampirism. She’s pretty and young and has the kind of face that makes him think she probably would have helped even without the mind control, but maybe that’s just his guilt talking. 

Either way, it’s better that he compelled her so she won’t remember. Safer for them both.

What she delivers is largely a stack of fiction - _Dracula_ and _Interview with the Vampire_ and a lot of urban fantasy novels - but there are a few more academic publications. Studies comparing vampire mythologies across cultures and centuries, obscure religious texts with first-hand accounts of priests dousing vampires in holy water and staking them into their coffins.

There’s nothing about how to return a vampire to the state of living. Not a single mention.

Nothing.

He spends hours hunched over in the basement, flipping pages and listening to the harsh overhead fluorescent hum until his back aches and his eyes burn, his hands coated with dust and powdery black smudges of old ink. 

It doesn’t matter. There are no leads to find, no shreds of hope to cling to.

He’s fucked.

He shouts and hurls a book against the wall, hard enough that it’s destroyed on impact. Loose pages float to the floor like paper snowflakes, the clerk staring at him with wide eyes and her hands clasped nervously in front of her chest.

Quentin wants to apologize for scaring her, for throwing the book, for wasting her time, for controlling her mind.

But he doesn’t. He’s too angry.

And he’s just so goddamned _hungry._

He shuts his eyes, his throat burning with thirst, his fangs descending against his will. He knows he can’t go back to Eliot this way. 

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” 

Quentin looks up at the lovely, soft clerk, and his shoulders slump in defeat. “I really wish you hadn’t asked me that.” 

And then, in a lightning-fast blur, he’s out of his chair and has his fangs in her neck. 

_It’s just to take the edge off. It’s to protect Eliot._

_Besides, it’s not like she’s real._

But she _feels_ real, warm and solid and pressed against his chest, her bones thin and light like a bird’s, her heartbeat growing faster and weaker with his every swallow. 

The guilt builds, rising and threatening to consume him; it manages to break through and get him to stop before he kills her. 

He rips his mouth away - it’s sticky with blood and he’s gasping, making a choking little sob sound as he lifts her unconscious form. Then he just stands there for a minute, holding her, his mind staticky with shock and panic.

Half of him can’t believe what he just did; the other half can’t believe he didn’t finish the job.

Eventually, he leaves her body in the stairwell, where she’s sure to be found before she bleeds out. 

He hopes, anyway.

And then he slinks back down into the sewers, tears mixing into the blood on his face and feet shuffling through the water, the damp air seeming to saturate his lungs until he feels half-drowned.

* * *

He makes it back to Eliot’s house as the last deep orange blaze of the sun disappears over the western horizon.

Stripping off his stained shirt, Quentin washes his face slowly, methodically, water dripping off his chin as he stares into the blank space in the mirror in front of him. 

And then the phone on the wall rings. It’ll be Eliot, checking on him, telling him where to meet him.

Quentin should ignore it. With everything that’s churning inside him, he should stay as far away from Eliot as possible.

But he can’t. He lifts the receiver. 

* * *

Twenty minutes later he’s approaching a dicey-looking club, his boots louder than he’d like against the pavement.

Eliot’s waiting for him.

Quentin’s not sure what his opening line should be - nothing his brain supplies is cool enough for this situation - but it doesn’t matter. Eliot doesn’t give him the chance to speak, grabbing him and pivoting, pinning him to the rough brick wall and kissing him so hard and fast it’s as if he’s been trapped underwater and Quentin is the only available oxygen tank. 

It’s nothing like their sweet sitcom kisses - this one is fierce, dominating and demanding, with the promise of leading to something greater, something they both desperately need. Quentin can feel it sparking in his veins, the desire a rope knotted around his sternum, pulling him undeniably toward Eliot. 

Their lips clash and fight, tangling and biting and sucking, nothing teasing, nothing gentle or asking. Quentin eventually wins the battle, surprising everyone involved, and yanks Eliot’s head to the side, trailing his mouth down his neck, grinding their hips together and grazing his blunt teeth over the edge of the bandage covering Eliot’s barely-healed wound. 

Quentin’s earlier snack has kept the beast within him under control but he can sense it rising now, primal and possessive. It’s urging him to listen to the rush and staccato beat of blood beneath the surface of Eliot’s skin and something changes, seizing control, and his graze turns into a _bite_. 

The bandage falls away and he gets the taste of hot iron and copper, the rush of something incredible against his mouth for the briefest of moments - then the ecstasy is broken by Eliot yanking his head away by his hair, gaping at him, one of those clever hands pressed against the side of his neck. 

“Fuck, Q, not so much teeth. I’m convalescing here, remember?”

Quentin falls back into himself like a high diver breaking the surface tension of a deep, cold pool. “Oh shit, I’m sorry, I guess I just forgot—” his voice is muffled as he quickly retracts his fangs, and there’s a little drop of blood, wet and sticky, smeared across his lips. 

“Yeah, well, next time you decide to start sucking on me, I have far better parts than my wounded neck.”

Their hips are still pressed together, all taut muscle and sharp bone, and Quentin notices something hard and insistent and pushed up against him. He wipes the blood from his mouth and raises a suggestive eyebrow, grinding his hips against the hardness he feels. “I knew you were kinky, El, but I didn’t know blood play was one of your things.” 

Eliot frowns, squinting at Quentin’s face with his hands hovering beside it, almost as if he’s afraid to touch him. “It’s not.” 

“But…” Quentin grinds his hips again against the length of hardness in Eliot’s pants. 

“Oh, that’s not—” Eliot steps back and takes the chance for a deep breath, his mind seeming to clear a bit as he fishes something out of his pocket. It’s a wooden stake, whittled to a sharp point at one end. 

He flips it between his fingers. “Slayer, remember?” 

Quentin flinches a little at the sight. 

Eliot tucks the stake back where it belongs and straightens his shirt with the other hand, carefully reconstructing his composure until he’s all sex and suggestiveness, smirking with one hand still in his pocket. 

It’s almost enough to make Quentin ignore the thin ribbon of blood running across his clavicle and peeking out of the unbuttoned collar of his shirt.

Quentin feels desire and disgust warring within him. 

And he’s not sure which one’s going to win.

“Jesus, El,” Quentin mutters. “I’m so sorry.”

“Forget about it, it’s nothing. We have far better things to discuss. I talked with Julia today and I think we have a plan—” he stops himself and looks around the quiet street, then leans in to whisper in Quentin’s ear. “There _is_ magic here - potions and rituals and whatnot. And if we can manage to stay here for a few more days, I think she might be able to help us escape.” 

He grabs Quentin’s hand, dragging him to the door. “Come on, everyone’s waiting for us inside.”

* * *

It’s a (barely) converted warehouse, soaring ceilings and concrete block walls and wide-open spaces. Multicolored lights flash and careen wildly, reflecting off sweaty skin and beer bottles and a large pane of mirrored glass set high up on the far wall. A DJ plays from an elevated platform at one end - dubstep is blaring, and Quentin barely has to use his superior sight through the dimly lit expanse to see that it’s Penny in the booth.

The music is loud enough to thrum through the soles of Quentin’s boots, to reduce communication to exaggerated expressions and short phrases shouted closely into one another’s ears. It’s dark and smoky thanks to a mixture of fog machines and cigarettes, glowing orange tips floating before neon-streaked faces. The floor is sticky underfoot, lacquered with thousands of spilled drinks and an insufficient number of half-assed attempts at cleaning. 

A sea of dancers crowds the floor in front of the DJ booth, but there’s a dozen smaller, quieter spaces toward the back of the room and up in the balcony, wrapping around the walls one story up.

Their friends swarm them as soon as they walk in the door and Eliot seems content to get swept away in the wave, saving the details of whatever plan he has with Julia for a later time. Quentin greets everyone with as much enthusiasm as he can muster - it’s not much, but it works.

He orders a Stoli on the rocks as a reflex, but it’s not until Eliot looks at him sideways that he realizes it’s not his normal drink - it’s some sort of holdover from his last personality. Quentin can feel them all rattling around inside him, the edges sharp and cutting like broken pottery shards unearthed on an archaeological expedition. The last tangible remains of lost civilizations.

It bothers him, but less so after he downs the first drink, and then the second. He holds the third in front of his face, watching the club through the frosty glass and clear liquid, everything seeming too slow and warped and distant. 

Nothing’s real. Nothing but him and Eliot - or pieces of them, anyway. The flesh and blood.

He throws back the last of the drink, and then drags Eliot away. 

The bass is thumping through his feet, vibrating the banister beneath his fingers as he climbs the metallic staircase, leading Eliot up to the balcony level and positioning them in a dark corner of the catwalk. Eliot tries to kiss him but Quentin turns his face to the side, instead unbuckling Eliot’s belt and slipping his hand beneath the waistband, pumping in time to the music, moaning filthy commentary into his ear. Eliot groans, his head falling back against the wall - and then he spots something better.

There’s a door at the far end of the balcony. 

He hooks his fingers through one of Quentin’s belt loops and tugs him to it, using his extra strength to break the lock so he can usher Quentin inside.

They’d been expecting a supply closet, or maybe a control room for the sound and lighting equipment, but instead it’s a small office. Eliot grins, dragging a chair over to prop under the door’s broken handle.

It’s dark and utilitarian, and the only interesting thing in the entire place is an enormous picture window that overlooks the dance floor below. It’s one-way glass - Quentin remembers noticing the large mirrored panel from down below - and Eliot shoves him back against it, kissing him roughly and pushing his hand down the front of Quentin’s pants. 

They’re gasping into one another’s mouths as their hands work, fingers fumbling over belts and buttons and zippers until both their pants and underwear are shoved down their thighs.

“Remember how I told you that I found magic here?” Eliot murmurs into Quentin’s ear.

Quentin rubs his thumb over the head of Eliot’s dick, slick with precum. “Right now, I really don’t care.”

“You’re about to,” Eliot says, grabbing Quentin’s wrist hard enough to still his movements. “Because in addition to formulating an escape plan with Julia, I whipped up a little potion with some _exciting_ benefits.” 

Eliot pulls a small vial from his shirt pocket and pours a thick, shimmering, pale blue liquid over his fingers. He spins Quentin to face the window and holds him there with a forearm braced against his shoulders, his fingers dipping down to Quentin’s ass.

Quentin feels the moment the potion takes hold, expanding and lubricating him in a second. He gasps and rocks his hips back, instantaneously ready and aching. Eliot makes a low sound deep in his throat, his cock hard and throbbing and driving to the hilt in one long, possessive stroke.

“I told you you’d like it,” he pants in Quentin’s ear, gripping his hip with his right hand to help him thrust, the other arm wrapping across the front of Quentin’s shoulders and chest to hold him in place.

There’s nothing sweet or gentle between them right now - it’s fast and rough and hard and Quentin can’t get enough of it, rocking his hips back to meet Eliot’s every thrust. He can feel the bass of the music vibrating through the glass beneath his palms, feel Eliot’s hot breath blowing over the sweat-slicked skin of his neck.

The world is reduced to the drag of flesh on flesh, to clenching and pulsing, to breath gasping and ragged. Quentin’s dick is hard and cold and neglected, Eliot putting all his enhanced strength and speed to use fucking him, pushing into him so hard and fast that he can’t spare a hand to reach around. And Quentin is pressed too tightly against the glass to get his own hand around himself, but part of him likes it. Part of him gets off on the frustration and denial. 

Beneath them, on the other side of the glass, their friends dance under the flashing lights, twirling with their hands overhead, laughing, sweating, spilling drinks. Quentin loves them and hates them in equal measure; they look like his family, they look like the puppets they are, they look like dolls, they look like nothing at all. 

Penny fades one song into the next, one with a faster, angrier beat that Eliot is happy to match. 

He’s wearing a cross necklace and it’s pressed against Quentin’s back, stinging and sizzling through his thin shirt, and Quentin’s so turned on that he likes it, feels himself dancing across that razor’s edge of pleasure and pain. Eliot’s panting against the crook of his neck, his teeth set dully into the meat of Quentin’s shoulder, his tongue licking the salt from his skin.

It’s heat and friction and so intense that it could take Quentin apart and put him back together again if he rode it all the way out. For a moment he feels so human and _right_ that he wonders if this is it, if this is the cure he’s been looking for, because he _has_ to be alive right now. Nothing else could feel this good. 

Nothing except the satiation of his incessant, frenzied _hunger._  

It comes roaring back with the mad pounding of Eliot’s heart against his back, the smell of his skin, the blood thrumming through the arm wrapped across Quentin’s chest. 

Eliot shifts his angle, just a fraction, just enough to hit the right spot, and Quentin _growls._

He doesn’t think about it. He’s too lost in sex and despair and vodka and hunger; he still feels empty even with Eliot filling him. So he shoves and strains and has Eliot’s wrist at his mouth faster than a human could move, his fangs descending and piercing the flesh.

It’s like Quentin has bitten a water balloon, blood pouring into his mouth, coppery and salty and hot and delicious. It’s dripping down his chin and soaking his shirt and he doesn’t even notice the absence of Eliot’s cock until he rips his arm away too, leaving Quentin cold and empty and sticky and aching.

“What the _FUCK,_ Quentin?!” Eliot staggers back into the desk, his pants still around his knees and tripping him up a little. He’s got his hand pressed over the open wound on his arm but Quentin nicked the artery - blood is still gushing between Eliot’s fingers, pouring like an open faucet across the berber carpet. 

Quentin laughs humorlessly, Eliot’s blood dripping from his lips, his teeth painted red. “What? You were inside me. Only seemed fair that I return the favor and get inside of you.”

“You’re…you…” Eliot can’t seem to find the words, shaking and fumbling to get away from Quentin, lifting his shirt off the floor with clumsy fingers, tying it into a makeshift bandage around his wrist. He already looks pale and drained, though whether that’s from the blood loss or the shock, Quentin couldn't say. 

And with his fangs still distended and the hot pulse of Eliot’s blood through his veins, he doesn’t even really care.

He knows he should. He knows he’ll torture himself over this later. But right now, he’s in too deep to give a shit.

“You’re not leaving already are you?” Quentin asks, pushing off the window, tugging his pants back up around his hips. He smiles a little but there’s nothing in it but malice, just a baring of teeth. Very sharp, very dangerous teeth. “Neither of us came yet.”

Eliot finally gets his pants buttoned back up, looking weak and inelegant and leaving a streak of wet red behind him as he stumbles to the door. “I…” His face is stricken and raw, like he has no idea what he was going to say. What he _should_ say. So he just kicks the chair out of the way and wrenches the door open, lurching down the stairs.

Quentin could catch him, of course. But he doesn’t - either because he’s coming down from the blood lust enough to control himself a little, or because the chase is always the best part, he’s not sure. But he takes his time buckling his pants back up and slinking out of the office. 

He practically skips down the stairs - he feels _amazing,_ like he’s on a cocktail of Josh’s best drugs mixed with love and bourbon and a pleasure spell. But he got so little of what he needed - he’s still hard and hungry, aching for something, _anything,_ as long as there’s a lot of it.

Julia is the first person he sees, dancing in a messy tangle with Kady next to Penny’s booth, her gin and tonic held over her head. It’s sloshing against the sides of the plastic cup and threatening to spill on the expensive sound equipment, but Penny doesn’t look like he really cares. 

Quentin stalks toward them. 

He still has blood on his face and his pupils are so large that his eyes look black, dangerous and hungry. But she’s Julia, and he’s Quentin, so when he asks her to come with him, she does.

Penny glares daggers at his back hard enough that Quentin can actually _feel_ them, but he doesn’t stop them. The real Julia would be smart and suspicious enough to ask questions before they went down the dingy hallway past the bathrooms, through the storage room, and out into the wet, cold alleyway behind the club.

But this is fake Julia. So she follows willingly.

Quentin doesn’t even bother with pretext. He just shoves her against the brick wall hard enough that it knocks her unconscious, and then drains her in a series of long, ultimately unsatisfying gulps.

It’s like the library clerk earlier - neither of them taste anything like Eliot did, because they’re not _real._ They’re not enough to sustain him.

But unlike the library clerk, Quentin doesn’t stop himself before Julia’s heart gives out.

And it still isn’t enough.

Frustrated, he drops Julia’s corpse at his feet and sucks his teeth - there’s a shred of her skin caught between his molars. He laughs a little, hysterical and deranged.

He paces the length of the alleyway, shaking out his hands, trying to work off some of his excess energy. Julia’s open, glassy eyes seem to follow him with every step.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. 

With a grimace, he toes at her body to roll it over; he can feel himself starting to come down now, and her empty face is beginning to bother him. He shivers and pulls his jacket closer. Without her warm body held against him he can feel the cold night air seeping in.

Then it finally begins to sink in. What happened. With Eliot. With Julia.

With _him_. With _what he is_.

Quentin chokes out a dry, strained sob and sinks to a shaky crouch, hugging his knees.

He should run away from here. He should stake himself. He should go find Eliot, make sure he gets to a hospital before he bleeds to death. 

Oh, god. _Eliot._

And, as if on cue, the club’s back door slams open beside him and Eliot stumbles out, nearly tripping on Julia’s corpse.

“Shit,” he mutters, scrambling back from Quentin as fast as he can. Quentin knows how this must look - blood all over the front of him, crouched over the cooling body of his best friend. He jumps to his feet, moving back.

“No, I — you don’t have to be afraid. I have it under control now, El, I swear.” Quentin’s not sure he believes it even as he says the words; it’s more like a prayer than a statement of fact. 

But Eliot is too weak to fight, slumping to the pavement. “A little playful nibbling now and then is one thing, Q, but this is a bit much.” 

“Don’t. Please. Don’t joke about this. I nearly killed you.” 

“Still might get the job done if I don’t get to a doctor soon.”

“El, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—“ Quentin shoves his fingers back through his hair, forgetting that they’re covered in sticky, cooling blood. “ _Fuck,_ ” he murmurs, quietly horrified.

Eliot closes his eyes, his voice horribly flat and cold. “Don’t lie to me, Quentin. Don’t sit there and try to tell me that you didn’t know you were a goddamned _vampire._ Don’t add that insult to my literal injury.”

Quentin’s stammering and starting to cry, wanting to reach out to Eliot, knowing he doesn’t deserve it. “No, I knew that I was a…but I just…I thought I could fix it, I thought we could escape and it would be okay…”

“None of this is okay.” Eliot opens his eyes, hard and dark as obsidian. “Not ever.”

Quentin nods, and swallows, and forces himself to pull it together a little. “I know, and we’ll deal with that, but it’s going to have to wait. You need to get to a hospital, El.” 

Because Eliot’s still bleeding, the shirt tied around his wrist completely saturated, drops splattering in a small pool against the pavement. 

Quentin can’t stop sneaking glances at it; keeping his fangs retracted feels like a Sisyphean effort.

“Don’t you think I tried?” Eliot asks, sounding empty and aching and just so, so tired. “The monster won’t let me go. It won’t let me be anywhere except this fucking alley. With you.”

“Maybe we have to go together.”

Eliot glares at him, but he manages to leverage himself upright, leaning against the wall as he stumbles to the far corner. Quentin walks beside him, keeping his hands carefully to himself, but ready to catch Eliot if he falls.

They can see the street ahead, an ambulance sitting motionless just beyond the mouth of the alleyway.

They try to take a step toward it—

—and end up bounced by the monster back by the door and Julia’s corpse.

And then Eliot’s stake just suddenly _appears_ in his hand. Quentin’s fangs descend, and he can’t force them back up.

“I think I know what this is,” he finally says, quiet and miserable, a bloody hank of his hair sticking to his cheek.

“Enlighten me,” Eliot replies, leaning heavily against the wall.

“I’m a vampire. You’re a slayer. Only one of us is supposed to make it out of this alive.”

Eliot stares at him for a long time, taking shallow, labored breaths. “Well, might as well get it over with then.”

Quentin nods, squaring his shoulders. He moves within Eliot’s reach and squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for the stake. 

It doesn’t come. 

“I’m ready, El.”

“Then finish me off already.”

Quentin’s eyes fly open. “What? _No_.”

“I’m dying anyway, Q. I can feel it. Besides, we both know I’ve low-key wanted to for a long time.”

Quentin laughs, inappropriately; he can’t seem to help it. “And I haven’t?” He wipes his hand over his face, smearing some of the still-wet blood across his cheek. “I’ve been sort of dead this whole time, El. End it. Stake me.”

Eliot shakes his head, weakly, his curls catching on the brick wall behind his head. “No way in hell is that happening. I’d rather die.”

“Too bad. You died in the last lifetime we spent together. It’s my turn.”

“Continuing the conversation is pointless, Quentin. I won’t do it.”

“Fine, then give me the stake and I’ll do it myself.”

“You have to be joking.”

“Look around us, Eliot! Look at Julia. Look at the blood. Look at your arm! You are going to bleed out, and _soon_ , if you don’t get to a hospital. We don’t have time to debate this. Besides, we can’t die in here for real, right? So it’ll just be like the zombies, and when you jumped off the cliff - I’ll be back in the next life.”

“This doesn’t feel the same, Q, not anymore. I don’t want to risk it."

Eliot tries to drop the stake, but the monster keeps his fingers clenched around it. He frowns, distracted and staring at his hand, and Quentin sees his moment.

He knows how this story has to end.

He leaps at Eliot, wrestling for the stake, knowing Eliot’s too weak to fight him off for long.

But Eliot manages to wrench it away from him twice, Quentin snarling, frustrated and terrified. “Just do it, El!”

Eliot has summoned all the strength he has left, staring Quentin down, teeth gritted together. “Never.”

He’s holding the stake tight against his body, braced against the bottom of his sternum, pointy end out. Quentin’s eyes flick down to it, calculating.

With the height difference, it should be just about right.

He wraps his arms around Eliot and whispers, “I love you.” 

Then, with supernatural speed and strength, Quentin impales himself. 

“ _No_!” Eliot cries, hoarse and broken. The monster finally lets him release the stake, but it doesn’t matter. It’s too late. 

Quentin’s mouth falls open in pain and shock, his grip on Eliot’s shoulders not loosening even a fraction—

—until he starts to disintegrate. 

And with his last moments, he catches Eliot’s eyes, using his vampire hypnotism one final time. 

“Forget that any of this ever happened.”

Quentin falls to dust, nothing more than a pile at Eliot’s feet.

Eliot’s blood drips into it, thick and dark.

“Quentin?” Eliot blinks slowly, a fat tear rolling half-forgotten over the curve of his cheek. His arm hurts, and he feels frightened and sick and lonely, but he has no idea what’s happening. There’s nothing except a mess of blood and dust at his feet, Julia’s crumbled body, and the sudden, deafening wail of ambulance sirens echoing off the close walls of the alleyway. 

The ambulance pulls up at the end of the alley and stops, lights painting the dark in over-bright red and orange hues. 

“Q?” Eliot says again, going weak with loss - either blood or Quentin, he’s not sure. All he knows is that something is terribly wrong, and he’s calling Quentin’s name like a chant, like a summoning spell, like an invocation. 

EMTs swarm around him, doing something to his arm, loading him onto a stretcher. Eliot’s trying to fight them, but he’s so tired and confused. “No, please, we have to wait for Quentin, he’s…I think he was here…” 

“We have to go, sir. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” 

And Eliot knows that’s true, but he can’t remember how it happened. He’s just…lost. 

The stretcher bounces a little on the rough pavement and he calls for Quentin one last time, his voice drowned out by the sirens and slamming of the ambulance doors. Inside, it smells like gasoline and antiseptic, and there’s a blinding light shining in his eyes. Someone jabs a needle into his arm. 

He feels heavy and slow, everything swirling and fuzzing at the edges.

And then the blackness finally rises up to claim him; Eliot rushes into it headlong and grateful. 


	9. To Boldly Go

“Hey, you guys, look - when I wave my hands around like this, they kind of look like fish.”

Josh has pulled the shade off of one of Margo’s expensive designer lamps and is currently creating the world’s shittiest shadow-puppet theater against her living room wall.

No one bothers to watch. 

Penny’s too busy doing advanced calculus while shoving food in his face and Julia is hanging upside-down off the couch, giggling at some joke known only to her. Margo is sprawled facedown on the faux bearskin rug in front of her fireplace, staring at the gas flames like they hold all the secrets of the universe. 

And Kady’s in the kitchen, theoretically overseeing the baking of the latest batch of brownies. In reality, she has found one square inch of the marble countertop that’s simply _fascinating_ to stare at, so now flames are beginning to lick at the surface of the brownie pan and tendrils of smoke are curling their way out of the oven.

“I mean, I know shadow puppets aren’t, like, the pinnacle of the theater world,” Josh continues, “but I’m pretty fucking good, right? Plus, if I add in my dick, my repertoire expands exponentially. I can make palm trees and seahorses and—“

“ _Fuck_ no,” Penny says, potato chip crumbs spewing from his lips and landing in the creases of the scarf looped around his neck. “I’ve seen your dick more than my own in the last seven days. That shit is _not_ okay.”

Josh makes a shadow of an enormous middle finger on the wall.

No one bothers to look at that, either.

And then the smoke detector starts beeping. 

“Jesus, Kady, _another_ kitchen fire _?_ ” Penny asks, already retrieving the fire extinguisher from its centrally-located spot on the dining room table.

* * *

An hour later, with the oven full of foam and all the windows thrown open to air the place out, Josh finally says, “You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I’m actually really fucking sick of being high.” He pulls his glasses off and sets them aside, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we please hurry up and find those last few missing asshats so we can devote our limited resources to developing a _real_ memory fix? I just want to come down and go, like, two hours without eating a goddamned cheese puff.”

An empty barrel of said puffs sits next to him, the orange dust coating his fingers and face and staining the carpet. (Margo has promised to kill him for it just as soon as she finds the energy.) 

“Alice is on lockdown,” Julia reminds them. “There’s no getting to her - at least, not yet.”

“Good riddance,” Margo murmurs, not looking away from the fire. 

“So let’s go get Eliot and Q already,” Josh says, checking over his equipment. He’s trying to synthesize a longer-lasting, more potent drug than what they’re all currently on, but it’s not going well so far. “We did the locator spell three days ago, Penny. What’s taking you so long?”

“What’s taking so long is that they’re in some kind of pocket dimension that is unmoored from space and time. Which makes traveling there fucking _hard,_ plus I have to figure out the calculations while tripping balls because otherwise I forget who I am and why I should be looking for them.” He shoves another handful of chips into his mouth. “So give me a goddamned minute.”

“It’s been 4,320 minutes. Figure your shit out already.”

They’re holed up in Margo’s apartment since it was the nicest and easiest of the available options, though she’s going to regret that choice if she ever comes down enough to notice what’s happened to it. Piles of empty chip bags, takeout containers, and beer bottles cover every available surface, and Josh’s weird and potentially explosive chemistry set is bubbling away on the glass coffee table. 

He’d like to make something better than an endless supply of drugs, something that would serve as a permanent solution. They all would. They just have no idea _how_.

Power isn’t the problem, despite the library’s best efforts. Magic is natural and wild; it isn’t meant to be controlled by a bunch of uptight, condescending, power-hungry dipshits. So it oozes out around the siphon, leaking and disseminating. It’s weaker, more unpredictable than it was before, but it’s there. Enough to use a locator spell to track down their friends, and enough to power the tattoos on Penny’s knuckles. 

The toughest part had been getting to Penny in the first place - it was just Margo and Josh, high as fuck and on a two-day road trip, Josh insisting on stopping to eat a full-on meal every three hours and spending the rest of the time filling his compact car with more flatulence than any human should be capable of producing. 

Margo made his smelly ass stay in the car when they reached Penny’s club. 

She’d put on her best lipstick and shortest skirt and marched right up to his DJ booth, managing it with a head full of smoke and only the slightest wobble on her sky-high stilettos. She’d thought maybe it was finally going to be their time to bang, but she didn’t even have to flirt with him to convince him to enjoy some of Josh’s edibles. 

Penny’d been all too eager to take a free high, even if it was off a stranger. 

Because the week before she arrived, he’d had a strange dream and woken up in the middle of a busy intersection in Taipei. Horns blared and tires screeched; he’d gotten road rash diving out of the way of an oncoming truck and was nearly run over half a dozen more times before he’d managed to stumble to safety. Well, relative safety - he was still in nothing but his underwear and halfway around the world from cash or a passport or anyone he knew. It had taken three days at the embassy and everything in his bank account in order to get himself back home - and, worst of all, he still had no idea how it had happened. Or how to prevent it from happening again.

He’d been willing to do any drug that might erase _that_ from his mind for an hour or two.

But ten minutes later, when he was remembering the truth of everything - including all that he’s lost and how completely fucked his entire existence is -  he was seriously regretting that decision. 

Ten minutes after _that_ , when Margo’s locator spell lit up a map that pointed the way to Julia, he changed his mind back.

And he’d retrieved her within the hour. Penny’s traveling ability - and the now-functional tattoos on his knuckles - had made bringing everyone back together fairly simple and straightforward. 

Everyone other than Eliot and Quentin, that is - tracking them down was proving to be harder than any of them had realized. Part of Penny is tempted to give up, but even those bastards deserve to know who they really are. 

Hell, in Coldwater’s case, it might even be something of a punishment. No way the fake personality the Dean gave him is as lame as his real one.

“I just can’t figure out how they got where they are, or how they wound up there _together_ ,” Penny mutters, thinking out loud.

“Maybe the potion didn't work on them and Dick Fogg had to stick them somewhere out of the way,” Josh says.

“Have I mentioned that I can’t wait to rip Fogg’s spleen out through his asshole?” Margo asks, staring at her fingernails. “Or maybe I’ll just kick him in the crotch so hard that his dick gets transformed from an outie to an _innie_.” She smiles at the idea, the cold breeze through the open window blowing a piece of her hair across her face and sticking it to her lip gloss.

“I think we should set something on fire again,” Kady muses, still staring at the countertop.

Julia starts giggling.

“Fucking hell,” Penny mumbles. “Julia, would you get those goddess powers back already? I need someone to pray to who can save me from these idiots.” 

He hunches over the table, scribbling on the back of a grease-stained paper bag, and tries to work out the final calculations.

* * *

As soon as he has eyeballs again, Quentin opens them. 

Everything is blurry and too bright, and he’s in some kind of glass coffin thing surrounded by lights and a steady beeping sound. It’s warm and there’s a soft mattress and thin blanket; someone murmurs something about adjusting the anesthesia, and his eyes close once more. 

He drifts for a long time. It’s dark and quiet and cozy there, painless and pleasant. Every time a memory tries to surface it falls away. 

Being put back together from dust and ash is a strange experience. It’s like being woven on a loom, except that analogy seems wrong, something centuries away from all this glass and metal and wiring and beeping. 

Mostly he’s unaware of what’s happening to him - either thanks to advanced drugs or his own body’s protective mechanisms, he’s not sure. He thinks it might be something like gestation, but thankfully he doesn’t remember that either. 

He’s just elements and molecules and energy and pressure. And he’s also the space in between all of that, which isn’t actually empty at all. 

Because everything is the same, connected and tangled together on a quantum level into one perfect whole. Quentin feels complete and secure, a part of something so big that his conscious mind could never comprehend it.

There’s light and darkness, and it doesn’t matter which one is present at any given moment, because they’re just two sides of the same coin. He hears voices sometimes, but not his own. He doesn’t think he has all the requisite parts for that yet. And he knows that the sounds the voices make form words, but they’re divorced from any meaning. 

Just simple rhythms and susurrations. 

What he doesn’t hear are any voices that don’t belong, or any memories or thoughts that aren’t organically his own. It’s just Quentin inside this new body, no broken pieces of anything that came before.

He is warmth and softness, being held with all the kindness the universe can muster. He would have thought that regrowing would be painful - that’s been his only experience with it, as a child with aching bones and tendons from being stretched too quickly, and as an adult with a heart worn too close to the surface, one that got scratched and cut and smashed. 

Growth hurts. 

But not this time. 

This is more like restoration. Thawing things that had been frozen, polishing what had become tarnished, reknitting anything that was unraveled within him. He’s not becoming the Quentin the monster made; this is the Quentin he was before. The one who was messy and unsure and prone to mistakes, but who loved with his entire being.

So many things float away from him. Everything he wants to let go of, he can. He’s not just washed clean; he is built anew.

He’s read texts about religious experiences that claim to give this feeling, but he never thought he’d find it for himself. 

All he knows is that eventually, he can see light through the darkness cocooning him. And he’s finally ready to swim toward it. 

* * *

When Quentin comes to for the final time it’s early morning, something he’s aware of only because of the digital clock glowing on the wall; the room’s windows show nothing but an endless black sky, dotted with moving stars. The walls, floors, and ceilings are all bright white and spotlessly clean, and the space is furnished like a modern, comfortable, and utterly generic hotel room.

But none of that is remotely interesting, because Eliot is stretched out on the enormous bed beside Quentin’s glass coffin. 

“It’s called a medpod,” Eliot says, correcting him; Quentin hadn’t realized he had said anything aloud. “Although the medics tell me that if they hadn’t gotten to you when they did, a coffin would have been the only option.”

Quentin’s still treading mental water, trying to understand exactly what’s happening here. Especially once Eliot flicks back the bedcovers, exposing the fact that he’s (as always) sleeping nude - and that he’s missing his right leg below the mid-thigh. A metallic plate of switches and wires is surgically implanted, and Eliot connects it to a heavy metal leg that was propped beside his bed. 

It’s beautiful - silvery plates and gears and motors that make an almost inaudible whirring sound when Eliot switches it on. He flexes the metal toes (which Quentin notices have been painted to match his real ones, a dark blue with tiny silver stars) and grimaces slightly, then stands. 

He’s limping a little on his way to the coff— no, _medpod,_ but Quentin gets the sense that it’s just morning stiffness rather than an actual mobility issue.

Eliot trails his long, elegant fingers over the glass near Quentin’s face in a movement that seems well-worn, like he’s done it a thousand times before.

And it’s so good to see Eliot again, to see his real, impossibly wonderful face, instead of the fragments of memories that kept Quentin company while he slept. Eliot, with dark stubble on his cheek and that familiar cleft in his chin that Quentin likes to press his fingertip into. The adorable way his nose is a little too big and his sideburns a little too long; his big, dark eyes with impossibly thick lashes, and that one curl that’s always threatening to go rogue and hang across his forehead. He’s Eliot. He’s a masterpiece. 

And somehow, in spite of it all, he’s Quentin’s. 

Eliot smiles, and presses a button that releases the lid. 

“Arise, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, offering Quentin a hand. 

And Quentin expects to be trapped with tubes and monitoring electrodes and all the accessories that come with the medicine that he’s accustomed to, but he’s not. He swings his legs off the side of the pod and stretches experimentally. 

“Everything feel okay?” Eliot asks, all quiet concern. 

“Yeah, actually.” Quentin tests his shoulder - he’s pretty sure even the wooden prosthetic is gone. It feels great - although anything would be a hell of an improvement over exploding into a pile of dust at Eliot’s feet. Which reminds him—

“How are you doing? Everything… good?” He’s pretty sure that the vampire thrall worked as he was dying, and he’s not sure if he should feel grateful or guilty about that - especially when Eliot just nods and smiles at him and strokes his cheek, gentle and indulgent.

Now that Quentin is in a body that belongs to him (at least, as far as he can tell) he knows that his actions weren’t entirely his own fault. And his vampire existence seems so far in the distance, like a literal lifetime. He feels fresh and new, the stains of that life bleached away. 

But that still didn’t give him the right to take Eliot’s memory, and they’re going to have to deal with that.

“Look, El, before we, uh, before anything happens, there’s something that I should—“

“Stop.” Eliot’s shaking his head, tall and carefully composed, but his voice is tender - King Eliot the Benevolent after all. “I know something happened, Quentin. I know that last reality was…wrong, somehow. And I’ve seen that self-loathing guilt on your face enough times to know that you think it was your fault.”

“It _was,_ Eliot, I—“

Eliot holds up a hand. “I wasn’t finished. Maybe you did something stupid - no, scratch that, you’re you, so you _definitely_ did something stupid - but the blame lies with the monster. It put us inside this tornado of fuckery, and we’re bound to do some damage as we swirl around inside it.” 

He steps closer, resting one hand on Quentin’s shoulder, thumb stroking softly up the side of his neck. “We’ll deal with it eventually, whatever it was. But right now, let’s just celebrate the fact that we’re alive, and we’re together, and the shower on this spaceship has a warm ion spray that makes your balls tingle as it cleans them. Okay?”

Something has happened to Eliot while Quentin was being remade. He’s been reshaped too, simply by being allowed the space and time to settle in somewhere, to be comfortable with himself again. He stands straighter and carries his tall frame with his usual calculated grace, even when he’s naked and one-legged with insane bedhead. He’s regained that fastidious, confident, regal air, and there’s faint nicotine stains on his fingers and a replica of his beloved flask on the nightstand. 

He is Eliot, wholly, once again.

“How long have we been here?” Quentin asks, already knowing that he isn’t going to like the answer. 

“A little over six months,” Eliot replies, offhandedly, like this isn’t by far the longest they’ve been stuck anywhere. Like this isn’t _ages_ out in the real world, like it’s nothing that they’ve spent that much time apart. “It’s some sort of sci-fi fusion reality - mostly _Star Trek_ \- and it’s kind of great, actually. I think you’re going to like it.” 

Eliot leans down and kisses him, gently, slowly, his thumb sliding along Quentin’s jaw. “I do have to tell you, though, since somehow you haven’t seemed to notice. You’re a tad bit… blue, here.”

Quentin’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m blue everywhere. Sometimes a lot more than a ‘tad bit.’” 

“Ahh, yes, except this time it’s literal.”

Quentin blinks a few times, rapidly, then looks down at himself; it takes him a few moments to really understand what he’s seeing. He’s nude, and every inch of that exposed skin is a pale, icy blue. He turns his hand over, skimming his fingers across the soft skin on the underside of his forearm and it shimmers a little with the movement, like finely ground glitter is embedded in his flesh. 

He looks as if he’s been buried beneath a glacier for a thousand years, so long that he has come to resemble the ice itself.

“They assured me that this is what you’re supposed to look like here, and I checked your file.” Eliot touches the wall beside the medpod, a panel that had seemed perfectly solid and blank but is apparently a screen of some sort, icons popping up across the white space. Another tap or two and Quentin’s personnel file fills the display, with a large picture of his face staring out, smiling in an endless loop like some kind of 3-D alien gif.

His features are the same, and he still looks like himself - mostly. He’s just pale blue, with a row of delicate earrings running up the shell of his left ear, exposed by his midnight blue undercut. 

“…Huh.”

“If it factors into your evaluation, I think it’s a great color. You look hot as fuck,” Eliot says, somehow direct and honest and outrageously flirtatious at the same time. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he’s walking away from Quentin, his bare ass on full display as he opens another not-wall panel that turns out to be a closet. He pulls out a black and gold uniform, turning back to Quentin with a smirk and raised eyebrow. “Wanna come take a shower with me? You can try out the tingly ball spray.”

Quentin takes a deep, even breath, and stares down at his blue hands. Eliot forgives him - or, at least, is willing to put off the hard discussion that is inevitably coming. And Quentin’s professional-grade avoidance tendencies are perfectly fine with that.

He feels lighter than he has in years. He’s a clear midday sky, sparkling with sunshine.

Blue _is_ kind of a great color on him. 

He grins and hops down, running after Eliot and smacking his ass with a laugh.

* * *

“So what have you been doing all this time?” Quentin asks after, when he’s putting on the uniform that was lying folded on a shelf beneath his medpod. It’s a lot like Eliot’s except red and with fewer pips on the collar - but that’s to be expected since he found out Eliot is the goddamned _captain_. 

(He learned this in the shower, when Eliot teasingly insisted on being properly saluted after a fucking _superb_ blowjob.)

“Oh, where to start?” Eliot muses. “I suppose with your accident, as it was the first thing that happened. After…well, after whatever it is that happened in our last reality, I arrived here, sitting in the captain’s chair on the bridge. Everything was bright and loud and confusing, and all I knew was that there was someone telling me that there’d been an accident in engineering—“ and his voice holds just the tiniest quiver, even all these months later, even with Quentin two feet away, warm and happy and wrestling with his uniform shirt, his hair a wild blue static cloud that pops out of the tight collar. “They said you’d been critically injured. I had to get someone to escort me to the sickbay because I didn’t know the layout of the ship - and hadn’t quite figured out how to walk on the mechanical leg yet - and by the time I got there, the med team had scooped up whatever was left of you and stuck you in that medpod. It was basically just ashes and dust but, somehow, this thing saved you. You’ve been sort of regrowing yourself ever since.” 

He touches the lid of the pod again in that same gentle stroke, familiar as breathing. “Once I learned how long it was going to take, I had them move it into my quarters so I could keep you close.” 

And then Eliot shrugs that elegant little shrug, as if it was all nothing. Six months flying through the cold black void of space, essentially alone, nothing but memories and a body in a glass coffin to keep him company.

Quentin presses his lips together, shaking his head a little. “Thank you. _Thank you_ , El. I don’t—“ he stops - he doesn’t want to lie, he’s done lying - so he simply says, “—I’m sorry I was gone so long. I’m going to do everything I can to keep that from happening again.”

The ship shakes and lurches around them, tossing Quentin into Eliot’s arms, both of them slamming against the wall.

And then a siren begins blaring, red lights flashing across the room. “All hands to battle stations,” a robotic voice says in a calm tone. 

“And so it begins,” Eliot says. “I guess that’s as much recovery time as you’re going to get.”

Quentin squats and hastily finishes tying his boots. “Has this sort of thing been happening all along?”

“Not at all. It’s been very quiet - peaceful, even.” Eliot takes his hand and helps him stand back up. "Thank god you woke up - I was beginning to get terribly bored.”

It’s a lie and they both know it, but it’s a kind one. Quentin understands. He just hopes that some day Eliot is as understanding about the truth of what happened to him. 

Quentin straightens his uniform and Eliot opens yet another hidden panel in the wall, this time one containing something that looks vaguely like guns.

“I have no idea how to use this,” Quentin says when Eliot presses one into his hands. “I don’t think the monster implanted me with any memories or knowledge this time.”

“Me neither; I had to learn it all as I went along. But these are phasers, and they’re very simple. Just point and shoot.”

Eliot opens the hydraulic doors and they join the barely organized chaos in the corridor, racing along before Quentin has even really processed what’s happening, his damp blue hair bouncing on top of his otherwise shaved head. 

Everyone they pass in the sterile, white hallways is running and frightened but when they notice Eliot they quickly move out of his way, hugging the curved walls of the corridor and offering him quick, instinctive-but-respectful salutes. He nods at each one in a distracted sort of manner as they race in the direction of the bridge, the red lights throwing his concerned expression into stark relief.

Quentin studies him thoughtfully. “You’ve come to care about this place, haven’t you? These people, this ship.”

“I’m a king in my blood, Q. Captain’s just another word for it.”

The pin on Eliot’s chest beeps and a familiar voice calls out, “Status report from the sickbay, Captain.”

Without breaking stride, Eliot presses it and answers, “Go ahead, Bambi.”

“I’m twat-deep in bodies already, Eliot. This place is swimming in more blood than a hot tub packed with free-bleeders.”

Quentin squints, unsure what, exactly, a free-bleeder is. Eliot just shakes his head.

“Thank you for that rather descriptive update, Doctor. How are you holding up otherwise?”

“The fucking ship is under attack and my entire staff is up to their elbows in viscera, how do you think?”

Eliot nods a little to himself. “Just keep your phaser close; I’m not sure exactly what’s going on yet.”

“Damn it, El, I’m a doctor, not a goddamned gunslinger!”

“You’re both, and so much more,” Eliot says. “Stay safe. Waugh out.”

Still running, Eliot presses the communicator pin again and says, “Captain Waugh to the bridge.”

“Yes, Captain, it’s First Officer Wicker.”

Eliot smiles a little, despite the circumstances. “Hey, Jules, wanna tell me what’s happening to our ship?”

Quentin raises an eyebrow at the obvious familiarity and affection between those two - clearly he missed out on a lot while he slept in the medpod.

“Captain, it’s a Klingon warship. Sensors somehow didn’t pick it up on approach; it’s like it just appeared out of nowhere.” The entire ship shakes again, a boom like thunder followed by the groaning of metal. “You’re needed on the bridge, sir. We’re outgunned, there’s a hull breach on level seven, and the warp drive has been disabled; additionally, the Klingons are showing signs of assembling a boarding party. There are… difficult decisions that need to be made, Captain.” 

With every word Eliot’s pace slows; by the time Julia finishes speaking he’s stopped completely, his lungs wheezing a little. He reaches into the pocket of his uniform - and now that Quentin has seen it on the rest of the crew, he realizes that Eliot’s has been custom tailored and accessorized - and pulls out his flask, taking a long, fortifying drink, his eyes distant and contemplative. The line is still open from Julia on the bridge and they can hear the harsh, guttural Klingon language in the background, a message demanding immediate surrender playing on repeat through the bridge’s speakers. 

Then the ship shakes with another boom, and an electronic voice informs them that the shields have fallen.

A second later there’s a haze of golden light and then a terrified scream at the end of the corridor as a Klingon warrior transports directly onto the ship. He has a high, wrinkled forehead and enormous bulk, more than six feet of muscles and gleaming blades and rugged armor. 

“Fuck,” Eliot hisses, pressing Quentin back down an adjacent hallway and drawing his weapon. “They’re not just assembling, Wicker, they’re _here_.” He leans around the corner and shoots the Klingon - the gun makes a high-pitched noise and something like a laser burst fires from the end. It looks a little silly but whatever it is works - the invader falls and doesn’t get back up. “Fire everything we’ve got and evacuate the crew to the escape pods. That includes you, Commander. Set autopilot and get the hell out of here.”

“Aye, Captain,” Julia answers, “it’s been an honor, sir.” 

The communication cuts out.

“Come on, Quentin, we’ve got to help with the evacuation, make sure that—“

“No.” Quentin’s firm and calm; the only other time he’s been like this was when he was breaking the news that he was intending to stay on as the monster’s jailor.

It terrifies Eliot.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean that this isn’t our fight. It isn’t our problem, Eliot - none of this is real, and pretending like it is will only suck us in deeper. We’ve played along for long enough. It’s time to get serious about getting out of here, so we’re doing it now. We are leaving _today_ , or we will die trying.”

Eliot blinks. “Jesus. That was intense.” His gaze drifts over Quentin, evaluating. “That last reality really fucked you up, didn’t it?”

“Believe me when I say that you didn’t like it either.”

Eliot shifts his weight a little, subconsciously flexing his prosthetic knee. “Shouldn’t we wait to escape from a place wherein you’re not an alien and I’ve regained all my limbs?” 

Crew members are racing through the hallway, armed with guns and medical supplies; Eliot and Quentin are like rocks in the middle of a rushing stream.

“No,” Quentin says. “We’re not waiting for another second. And with all this chaos going on, we might even have a chance of slipping away unnoticed.”

Eliot sighs and presses his hand to a panel in the wall, a set of nearby doors opening with a whoosh. He drags Quentin inside and the doors shut behind them - it’s a cramped supply closet, but it gives them a little separation from the mayhem exploding everywhere else.

“Look,” Eliot says, “I like a feisty and determined Quentin Coldwater as much as the next raging homosexual, believe me, but what exactly is your plan here? We’re stuck inside a monster’s tv. There’s nowhere to slip off _to.”_

Quentin tries to tuck his hair behind his ear, only to remember that it’s mostly gone. He looks up at the ceiling, his hand falling to his side. “I know—I know it sounds crazy. Nothing’s ever worked before, but that was when we tried to get out using our own magic, or by running away, or something like that. But… but what if we played by the rules? Like, we’re in _Star Trek_ , right? Or something like it? So there has to be a transporter room. What happens if we go there and program in the coordinates for Brakebills?” He shrugs. “Maybe we can just beam our asses right back home.”

The alarms are still sounding, the red light over the door flashing across Eliot’s face at regular intervals, but he doesn't seem as concerned about it as he was a moment ago. He sinks down onto an overturned mop bucket, shaking a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, and lights it with some sort of accessory he pops out of his robotic ankle. 

Inhaling deeply, he blows slow smoke rings toward the ceiling, and even though Quentin’s not familiar with Starfleet regulations, he’s pretty sure that has to be against all of them. 

“It wouldn’t be our real home,” Eliot finally says, the words tinged with smoke. “It would just be another part of the simulation.”

“Maybe. Or maybe not. At least it’s something new to try.”

Eliot takes another drag, this one shorter, sharper. “The monster has no problems forcing us to its will. It will physically move us, choke us, bounce us to another reality—“

“Let it,” Quentin says, all frustrated resolve. “At some point, it has to get tired of fighting us, or…or bored, at least. Maybe it will let us out. Or maybe it will make a mistake and we’ll be able to escape. Something. Anything.”

The closet doors fly open - and another Klingon looms in the space between them. She shouts something neither of them can understand, some sort of battle cry, and reaches for the axe strapped across her back.

Quentin and Eliot draw their weapons at the same moment, and afterward neither one is certain who fired the fatal shot. It doesn’t really matter - she’s down, and she’s not getting back up.  

Eliot was right; it’s as simple as point and shoot. Quentin grabs his hand and they hop over the corpse in the doorway, racing off.

Through the madness of sirens and flashing lights and destruction and skirmishes, Eliot guides them along a maze of interchangeable corridors and into an elevator. Apparently he has a destination in mind, but he hasn’t shared it with Quentin. 

It could be the bridge, to help Julia. It could be the shuttle bay, to help with the evacuation.

Or it could be to the transporter room, to try Quentin’s insane escape plan.

The ship continues to screech and shake around them, a robotic voice chanting “Abandon ship. All personnel evacuate immediately,” on repeat overhead. They’re thrown off their feet half a dozen times, sliding and slipping as the ship lurches back and forth. 

Once, the lift doors open onto a level that has a gaping hole ripped into the hull, the black vacuum of space threatening to suck them out before they can jam the doors shut again. 

They stick to the stairs after that.

And they’ve been running for what feels like forever, turning what has to be the fiftieth identical corner - only to find that the corridor before them is crawling with Klingons, the floor littered with the bodies of Eliot’s crew. 

“Shit,” Eliot says, or maybe it’s Quentin, he really can’t tell - he’s too busy fumbling for his phaser and trying to shove Eliot out of the line of fire. 

Eliot’s not having it, though, darting out to his side and getting off half a dozen blasts before his gun is shot out of his hand and he’s forced to drop back into the cover of a doorway, nearly tripping over the still-bleeding body at his feet. He pulls Quentin behind him, trying to shield him with his larger frame, but Quentin is awkward and a little slow and winds up with his right leg exposed. 

He takes a direct hit to the thigh and shouts, dropping his phaser.

Interestingly, the shot bounces right off - and rebounds onto the Klingon that fired it, killing him instantly.

“…Okay,” Quentin says in amazement, inspecting the singed hole in his uniform pants and the intact flesh beneath it, smiling to himself. 

But Eliot’s not even marginally assuaged by the fact that Quentin’s alien body is, apparently, laser-bullet-proof. He’s raging with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, and in the flashing red light he looks fierce, formidable, every bit the warrior king he was destined to become. And one kick from his powerful metal leg sends the nearest Klingon soldier flying, slamming into the far wall hard enough that he’s knocked unconscious, sliding into an inelegant lump on the floor.

“Holy fuck,” Quentin says, eyebrows halfway to his hairline. “That was seriously just… all manner of hot.”

Eliot inhales, the end of his cigarette flaring orange, and winks at him. “Thirst later, Q. Fight now.”

Quentin blinks. “Right,” he says, and rushes at the nearest Klingon.

And he may be bulletproof, but he quickly discovers that he’s no stronger as a blue alien than he was as a pasty fanboy.

“Oh, fuck,” he mumbles, as the Klingon methodically punches the shit out of him. He takes a shot to the kidney - at least, where the kidney would be on a human. He’s still pretty much human-shaped, and it hurts, so maybe he has kidneys? 

He shakes his head. _Now is not the time to be pondering my internal anatomy, fuck—_

The Klingon wraps an arm around his throat, choking him. Quentin’s up on his toes, wriggling and gasping and trying to get in a lucky punch, but nothing is helping. Eliot’s busy - he’s lifted a battle axe from one of the fallen Klingons and is using it to duel the only other one standing. 

Quentin wonders, wildly, what color his oxygen-deprived skin is turning, since he was blue to start with.  

_Focus,_ he tells himself.

He squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to stop struggling. To let his entire body just hang there, limp.

And the Klingon, thinking that Quentin has passed out, loosens his grip. It’s just a fraction, the barest release, but it’s enough to allow Quentin to drop out of the chokehold, crashing onto the hard floor. Stunned, he lies there for half a second, sputtering and staring at the ceiling.

Which is how he notices that there’s a groove cut into it directly above his head. He shifts his eyes to the side and sees the reason for it - he’s lying in the middle of one of the emergency airlocks that allows the crew to seal off the hallway in case of catastrophic damage. 

Maybe he can use it to cause some damage of his own. 

He kicks wildly up, aiming for the Klingon’s crotch, hoping they keep their junk in the same place as humans. And his boot collides, the force reverberating through his shin, but the Klingon’s armor is strong - the kick barely slows him down. 

So Quentin scrambles to his knees, half-crawling and half-sliding his way to the airlock’s control panel, prying the cover off and ripping a fingernail in the process. Blood wells up, smearing across his fingertip. The Klingon takes a step toward him, reaching for a wicked-looking blade strapped to his belt. 

And Quentin takes a small step back, making sure that his entire body is on the far side of the door - the side closest to the still-dueling Eliot - then slams the red button to seal the corridor. The Klingon lunges after him, but the doors shut with powerful, near-invisible speed - one second they’re embedded in the walls, the next they’re sealed airtight, with the Klingon’s body on the far side. 

His head, however, is still with Quentin.

It falls to the floor with a dull thud, pinkish-lavender blood oozing from the neck stump.

Quentin stumbles back from it, laughing a little hysterically.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” he mutters, raking his fingers back through the hair on top of his head.

“No time,” Eliot answers, a bloody axe resting over one shoulder, his free hand flicking his cigarette butt into the blood pool. It extinguishes with a hiss. “You wanted to run? Now’s our chance.” He jerks his chin down a perpendicular hallway. “Transporter room’s right down there.”

Quentin grabs him and presses a hard, quick kiss to Eliot’s mouth, grinning up at him. “You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go kamikaze ourselves already.”

They race through the corridor, sparks raining down on them from frayed overhead wiring, and nearly miss the transporter room door entirely when steam erupts from a ruptured hydraulic pump in the wall. 

Battling through the hot, white fog, they rush inside and Eliot types something into a control panel in the wall, locking them in with some kind of Captain’s override.

They slump back against the door, trying to catch their breath, and see that luck is with them - the transporter chief is still at his station.

But then he swivels his desk chair toward them and they realize that their luck is _terrible_ , because it’s Penny.

“The fuck are you two idiots doing here?”

Eliot sighs and smooths a hand over his hair, pushing back an unruly curl. “May I remind you that I’m your Captain? Also - and believe me, I know I’m the last person who should be saying this - but you really need to seek out a qualified therapist. You have some serious issues with authority.”

Quentin snorts. “In case you didn’t catch it, the important words there were _captain_ and _authority,_ ” he says, gesturing to the pips on Eliot’s collar. “So do your job and transport us. I’ll give you the destination.” He leans over the console, poking at buttons on the touch screen. He doesn’t know the coordinates for Brakebills - especially on an interstellar level - but thankfully the command center has a search function.

It’s so user-friendly that he kind of wants to kiss it; it really is a shame he won’t get to spend more time here. He always loved _Star Trek_.

“Ready for this?” Quentin asks, climbing onto the transporter platform.

“Not even a little bit,” Eliot answers, pulling him in for a searing kiss. He twists his hands in the fabric of Quentin’s uniform shirt and curls his tongue inside his mouth; it feels like Eliot is putting all the time they’ve missed in the last six months into this kiss, along with everything they’ve lived through during the years they’ve been trapped in this tv, and their lifetime at the mosaic, and their friendship at Brakebills.

It’s a kiss that’s meant to last - because, depending on how the monster responds to this act of rebellion, it might be their last chance.

“Ensign Adiyodi,” Eliot finally says, his lips still so close to Quentin’s that they lightly brush against his skin as he speaks; his dark eyes are locked with Quentin’s soft, somewhat unfocused gaze. “We’re—“

A deep boom, one they feel as much as hear, echoes through the ship, shaking the platform beneath their feet. The power flickers once, twice, and then gives out. 

“Whoa,” Quentin says, panicking as he feels the floor dropping away beneath his feet. “Eliot, something weird is happening—“

And then the auxiliary power kicks on, illuminating the problem. The gravity drive has suffered catastrophic failure.

They’re beginning to float.

Quentin hurriedly grabs onto Eliot, stretching his toes futilely toward the platform - but the more he flails, the higher he moves. Everything feels too light, too loose - his clothes, his hair, his _bones_ \- and he kicks his feet frantically toward the ground, pinwheeling his free arm. 

In just a moment, he’s going to float off of the platform’s range entirely. 

“Fuck, Penny, hurry!”

Penny has floated out of his chair, holding onto the transporter control panel with one hand and tapping in coordinates with the other, but he has to keep adjusting them as Quentin floats around. 

And then he nearly lets go of it entirely, jumping at the clang of a battle axe against metal on the far side of the door. There’s a Klingon chopping away at the panel controlling the locking mechanism. He’s shouting guttural swears and promises of bloody, painful death as he tries to pry open the locked doors— 

—and another Penny pops into the room. 

He starts floating, too.

“What kind of freaky cosplay shit are you two up to now?” he asks, trying to hang onto the wall beside him. He looks over and sees himself in the Starfleet uniform, his lip curling. “Damn. How many versions of me _are_ there?”

“Too fucking many,” Quentin mutters.

Without gravity, Eliot’s curls have lifted away from his head and are hovering like a dark halo around his face; Quentin’s hair is a dark blue puff towering atop his head.

“Quentin, what the hell is happening with your hair?” Penny asks. “You look like a less fuckable Marge Simpson.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Eliot says, ignoring both Penny’s comment and Quentin’s raised middle finger. “Why are there two Pennys? We’ve never had duplicates before.” 

He wraps his legs around Quentin to keep him from floating away, and then forms a square between his fingers to check for magic. “Holy fuck, Q. It’s really Penny.”

“No shit, genius,” Penny says. “Are you two done role-playing now? Can we get the fuck out of here?” 

“Real Penny?” Quentin asks, shaping his fingers and checking for himself. “ _Our_ Penny?”

“I’m real, shitstick, but I sure as fuck am not _yours._ ” Penny kicks off the nearby wall and float-flies through the air toward them, catching one of Eliot’s hands. “Can we go now?”

“Yes,” Eliot answers, too shocked to say anything else.

“ _Please,”_ Quentin begs.

Penny glares over at the low-ranking _Star Trek_ version of himself one last time, then travels them out.

* * *

They land in a posh apartment that smells like smoke and Doritos and lavender potpourri. It’s a weird combination, and not particularly pleasant, but it’s undeniably _real_ and therefore far better than anything the monster had ever come up with.

“Holy shit you guys, you have no idea how good it is to see you,” Quentin says, rushing at Julia with open arms. She pulls him in gratefully, without a single hesitation at the fact that his skin is now blue.

Margo is a ball of shiny hair and red lipstick that practically flies at Eliot, squeezing him so hard that he loses the ability to breathe properly. “It is, it _really_ is,” he agrees, his voice a little strained. He holds Margo’s head to his chest and closes his eyes for a moment, pressing a lingering kiss to her hair. 

“I don’t really understand, though,” Quentin says. “We were in there for _years_ and you all look the same… just more stoned.”

Eliot raises his face enough to nod his agreement. “That’s true. And I am familiar with several of your skincare routines - you were not adequately preparing to age this gracefully.”

“Yeah, well, we haven’t really aged at all,” Kady says, straightening from her place slumped over the kitchen counter. "Best we can figure it’s been two months since Blackspire, give or take.”

Quentin and Eliot stare at each other across the room, slack-jawed. 

“That’s not possible,” Quentin finally says.

“It is when the pocket universe you were in was disconnected from time,” Penny says. “Which made getting you out a real bitch, by the way.”

Josh won’t stop staring at Quentin. “Also, I must be _super_ fucked up because you, my dude, look exactly like an alien.”

“Yeah, I’m seeing Alien Quentin too,” Kady says. “What’d you put in that last batch?”

“It’s not the drugs, you guys.” Quentin self-consciously runs his hand over the dark blue stubble of the shaved portion of his head. “I do actually look like an alien now.”

“You should see his tail,” Eliot says.

“ _Jesus_ , Eliot, you can’t just go around talking about a man’s tail—“

“Why not? We’re among friends. Besides, I happen to love it. I have _plans_ for that tail.”

Penny rolls his eyes. “Enough about Coldwater’s blue ass. What the hell was that place?”

Quentin’s shoulders slump a little. “It was the monster’s creation. We were inside what it called its tv set.”

“Speaking of,” Eliot says, “how did you guys do it? How’d you defeat the monster?”

They all look around at one another, bloodshot eyes holding equal amounts of confusion.

“What monster?”


	10. Static and Snow

“Fuck,” Quentin mutters, shoving the sleeves of his Starfleet uniform up to his blue elbows. “If you guys didn’t stop the monster, then that means it’s still out there - and it’s gonna be _pissed._ So we need to run, like, right now.”

“Seriously?” Josh asks. “Guys, what the hell is going on?”

“Yes, _seriously,_ because the monster, the one from Blackspire? Yeah, it’s out. And we can’t fight it - there _is_ no fighting it - so running is our only option.” 

Eliot looks at Quentin, his face a mask of calm, but there’s panic in his eyes. “Where do we even go? It can find us anywhere.”

Quentin takes a deep breath, raking his fingers through his blue hair. “Somewhere warded out the ass? Brakebills, maybe?”

“No, Fogg’s there,” Penny says. “We have enough shit to deal with at the moment without adding his drunken double-agent ass into the equation.”

“What about Fillory?” Margo suggests. “I am still the goddamned High King - at least I better be, or heads are gonna fucking _roll_.”

But Julia shakes her head. “The monster’s prison was on the underside of Fillory for millennia; it’ll find us there, too."

“No,” Quentin says, heavy with resignation. “I know where we have to go.”

* * *

Five minutes later they’re trudging through the Antarctic tundra. 

Brakebills South looms large before them, snow piled high against the stone walls. The wards have been strengthened even further - they’re now so impenetrable that they prevent anyone from opening a portal anywhere inside. 

So Margo’s standing there in heels that would be impractical in any setting, snow melting against her skin and filling her shoes with a frigid slush. “Fuck,” she mutters, teeth chattering, her rapidly-numbing fingers trying to work through a spell. Her goal is to transfigure the stilettos into a pair of boots - but, considering the cold, stress, fear, and unavoidable fact that she’s currently blasted out of her head, she gets her fingering out of sequence. 

And conjures a giant bottle of whiskey instead. 

She stares at it, confused for longer than she normally would be, before waving it around and giggling, “I got _booze_ instead of _boots._ ” She cracks open the top and takes a long, burning drink, forgetting entirely about her rapidly freezing feet.

Josh just trudges to her through the knee-deep snow and loops her arms around his neck, then turns around and lifts a little; Margo wraps her legs around his waist and rides the rest of the way piggyback-style. 

It’s not that long of a walk, but everyone is shivering, their breath clouding the air in front of their pink-tipped noses by the time they draw close enough to see the front door—

—and the large bear lounging on the stoop, chugging vodka straight from the bottle. 

Mayakovsky.

But his only acknowledgement of their presence is to roar a little as they pass by, and maybe it sounds like he’s saying “fucking morons” in a heavy Russian accent, or maybe that’s just Quentin projecting, he’s not sure. The line between what’s real and what’s not has become so blurred as to be nonexistent, and he squeezes Eliot’s hand a little harder just to tether himself to the earth. 

They drop the few hastily-packed bags they brought with them in a small pile just inside the doors, and Margo smirks. “Damn, Q, you must have really underdressed for the weather. You got so cold your skin turned blue.” 

She laughs too loudly for the silent, cavernous space, her mouth so close to Josh’s ear that he winces. In apology, she raises the whiskey bottle to his lips and lets him take a sip. 

(She’d never admit it, even to herself, but she’s grown sort of fond of the ridiculous little stoner after their adventure together.)

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you,” Quentin mumbles to her, tugging his sleeves down over his blue hands. 

Eliot rotates his robotic ankle and flexes the toes, making sure nothing was damaged by the cold and damp. Josh carefully slides Margo to her feet and reaches into his bag, pulling out one of the several dozen joints he has pre-rolled. He lights it with a snap and takes a long hit, passing it to a resigned Penny to his left.

“Look,” Eliot says, already shaking his head at himself. “I know I don’t have a metaphorical - or even literal - leg to stand on here, but we will probably be better equipped to formulate an immortal-monster-slaying plan if you guys aren’t super fucked up.”

“Sorry, El,” Margo says, taking the joint from Penny. “Our memories weren’t all monster-mashed back into our skulls.” She puts a red ring of lipstick on the rolling paper, the other end crackling as she breathes in.

Penny finally exhales, smoke curling out of his lips toward the ceiling high above them. “The only reason we know who we are is because we’re tripping balls right now.”

“Which is all thanks to yours truly for growing magical weed that counteracts the memory wipe,” Josh says. “Naturalist abilities for the fucking _win!_ Suck it, Physical Kids _._ ”

Margo rolls her eyes. “It’s not like we didn’t know some shit was up. I’ve been hallucinating for weeks - but only out of one eye.”

“That’s nothing,” Josh argues back. “I turned into an animal during the last full moon. Not the party kind. An _actual_ animal.”

“I watched _Casablanca_ before bed and was terrified I was gonna wake up in Morocco,” Penny says.

“I hear people’s prayers in my head,” Julia says.

Margo shoots a withering look at Josh. “So we would have gotten to the truth even without your magical mystery plant, Cheech.”

“Hey!” Josh protests. “I saved us! I’m the hero of this story.”

“You pissed all over your own apartment while howling at a fluorescent lightbulb less than two weeks ago,” Penny says.

“A man has to mark his territory! There’s no shame in that.”

Julia’s getting giggly again. “There’s shame in your shadow puppets though.” She snorts. “The dick palm tree was _awfully_ short.”

Eliot and Quentin have silently watched this entire exchange, equal parts amused and confused. Finally, Eliot shrugs and reaches for the joint. 

“El, come on, we need a plan here, not more of… whatever this is.”

“When in Rome, Q,” Eliot says, taking a drag.

Quentin sighs.

* * *

After a quick sweep to make sure they’re the only people in the dim, sprawling building, they meet back in the entryway, their feet leaving little puddles of melted snow around them. 

“So, first priority has to be finding something to reverse the memory wipe,” Quentin says. “It was a potion that did this to us - which means there’s bound to be an antidote somewhere, right?”

Eliot shakes his head. “Fogg said there wasn’t.”

“Fogg said a lot of shit,” Margo says. “But he’s not half the magician Mayakovsky is. You think that paranoid bastard would have allowed Henry Fucking _Fogg_ to have something as powerful as a memory potion without making damn sure he was armed against it?”

Kady flicks her eyes at the bear through the window. “Yeah, okay, but how do we find it? It’s not like Misha-kovsky is really going to be much help.” She snorts a little half-laugh at her own joke, Josh joining in— 

—but five blank expressions look back at them.

“You know, because Misha is slang for bear in Russian?” Kady says. “And now Mayakovsky is an _actual_ Russian bear? So… Misha-kovsky? Jesus, his  _first name_ is literally Misha it’s not like this is even that much of a stretch.” 

Everyone is still just staring. 

“You know what? Fuck you guys,” she says. “You have no problem learning ancient Sumerian and like, obscure Egyptian hieroglyphics and shit, but god forbid you learn a language that would let you communicate with real, living people.” She shoves her mass of curls away from her face. “I’m so unappreciated around here.”

“Okay, well, how’s this for appreciation,” Quentin says. “You speak Russian. Any chance you can use that to search through his shit and figure out what we need?”

Kady takes a deep breath and blows it out, rolling her eyes. “I can try? I speak it more than read it, but yeah, I’ll give it a shot.”

Which is how, an hour and a half later with the assorted contents of Mayakovsky’s office strewn absolutely fucking _everywhere,_ Kady finds the bottle that they need.

“How much of it do we take?” Penny asks.

“We don’t take it. I’m pretty sure this says we put one drop in each of our eyes.”

“Pretty sure?”

“It’s either that or up our asses, I’m not really clear on some of these words.”

“Jesus, Kady, that’s a serious anatomical difference,” Margo says.

“Well, it’s not like I have access to Google Translate down here.”

“Fuck it,” Penny says, and unscrews the lid, using the attached dropper to splash the liquid in his eyes.

He blinks a few times, staring around.

“Well?” Quentin asks, arms wrapped around himself, hugging his sides.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Penny says.

“How can you tell? Aren’t you still high?”

“This shit is different. When you’re high, it’s like you’re remembering your life as a dream - everything’s kind of fragmented and foggy. Now it’s a real memory.”

“Terrible and traumatic?” Eliot asks.

“Exactly.”

“Alrighty then,” Josh says with sarcastic cheer. “Who’s up next?”

* * *

Ten hours later and their first strategy discussion is not going well. 

They’ve all bathed and changed into the old cream-colored uniforms, with long underwear and turtlenecks to help combat the incessant cold. Julia has a blanket thrown over her shoulders; Quentin is wearing two pairs of socks. 

They’re seated around the enormous, heavy wooden table, a fire crackling in the fireplace, bowls of soup sitting half-eaten before them. Kady scoops up a spoonful of hers and stares at it, slowly letting it dribble back into the bowl. 

Getting their memories back has meant that morale has taken a serious hit. 

And so has Mayakovsky’s vodka stash. 

Margo swirls her glass, the ice cubes making little tinkling sounds against the side. “If we’re going to have to hole up somewhere, why can’t it be Whitespire? We can ward the shit out of it, and I can order an entire _army_ to stand between us and the monster.” She takes a long sip, ice bumping against her upper lip. "At least there we would be in a fucking palace instead of this place. It’s as frigid as a nun’s twat down here.” 

“You don’t understand,” Quentin sighs. “The monster can get through an army. It would probably think it was _fun_.” 

“Yeah, fighting is really not an option,” Eliot says, plucking a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket. 

“Fighting is _always_ an option,” Kady says. 

Quentin and Eliot just look at each other, Eliot rubbing unconsciously at his thigh where the robotic leg attaches. “Not this time,” he finally says. 

“So what do we do? Just hide down here until we die?” 

“We just… we need some time,” Quentin says. “To think.” 

Julia nods, tracing a finger over the swirls of woodgrain in the table before her. “I think we could probably all use some time. We’ve been through… a lot.”

* * *

Which is how they wind up spending the majority of their first week in Antarctica sleeping. And drinking. And staring off into space.

It’s almost as if Mayakovsky has stolen their voices all over again - they move in slow, silent circles around one another, not saying much, communicating mostly through nods and half-smiles. They’ve all claimed one of the little dorm rooms for themselves (except for Quentin and Eliot, who are sharing), but everyone leaves their doors open, taking comfort in being able to see one another napping or walking to the bathroom or getting a snack. 

The sunlight is low and tinged blue, weakly seeping in through the windows, nearly overpowered by the flickers of firelight from every hearth. It doesn’t seem to correspond to any particular schedule, shining near-constantly in a way that reeks of one of Mayakovsky’s enchantments. 

The bastard never did anything about the cold, though. No matter how many fires and stoves and candles they light, there’s always the chill creeping in, sinking so deeply into their bones that they’re certain they’ll never be warm again. Everyone slowly evolves into a shapeless form buried beneath layers of sweaters and scarves and thick socks - Quentin even manages to tug a beanie down over Eliot’s hair once, kissing him as a distraction.

Mayakovsky drunkenly glares at them through the windows on a semi-regular basis, probably for simply existing. They think about transforming him back - Kady even goes out to attempt it once - but he doesn’t seem to _want_ to go back. 

And if he’s happy with his life as a drunk bear, then none of them are going to argue. He’s a lot easier to be around now that he can’t really speak.

Nearly everything about Brakebills South seems smaller and less threatening than it did before - it’s terrain they’ve already traversed and conquered. The cold is bitter but it’s also an excuse to snuggle; the small bedrooms become cozy when they’re open and shared. And outside, pristine white snow stretches as far as they can see in every direction, like they’re hidden away on Hoth. 

The copious quantities of vodka help immensely. 

Quentin keeps lying on the cold, hard floor, relishing the way it feels under his spine and skull because it’s solid and constant and _real_. He stares at the ceiling with its intricate woodwork and antler chandeliers and splays his fingers out as wide as they can go, pressing his palms into the hardwood floor. 

Eliot looks down at him strangely the first time it happens, towering from what seems an impossible height. And Quentin blushes, saying, “It’s like I can feel the Earth - the actual Earth, _our_ Earth - spinning beneath me,” and Eliot simply folds himself down beside him, maneuvering carefully around his prosthetic leg, and presses his shoulder into Quentin’s. 

It makes them both smile. 

Everyone drifts in and out of rooms, and sometimes out into the snow for brief periods (during one of which, Julia swears she witnesses Mayakovsky using his paws to do a rough version of Poppers 26 that refilled his bottle). No one really does much, just conjuring soup and lighting cigarettes, wrapping up in blankets and taking deep breaths.

They’ve all got something to process.

Eliot and Quentin have another lifetime’s worth of things.

They cling to each other everywhere - squeezed in on the twin-sized bed, pressing their knees together under the table when they eat, their hands constantly on shoulders or waists or laced together as they walk the halls. They’re haunted by the nagging sense that they’ve been mildly electrocuted, feeling shaky and high-strung and easily startled. 

Most nights they can barely sleep, terrified that every time they close their eyes they might be whisked back into the never-ending stream of shifting realities. And - on the rare occasions when they do doze off - they wake with with starts, fingers grasping for one another, for the grounding feeling of warm skin over solid muscle and hard bone, the feeling of life - _real_ life. 

Quentin sighs with relief every time he opens his eyes and sees the same bland, frigid, spartan room.

But just as confusing as the nightmares are the happy dreams. The ones where he’s in black and white with a husband and a baby, where Eliot’s laughing with Margo and pulling pints behind a mahogany bar, where Quentin sits in an audience watching Eliot sing pop songs for Simon Cowell. Because he startles out of those, too, but when he wakes up and remembers the truth, it’s tinged with disappointment - and maybe even a little regret. 

There’s a part of him that liked the excitement of reality jumping, the adventure of it all. And the longer he spends in this silent, cold building with its thin sunlight and no hope of leaving anytime soon, the more he wonders if it was really so bad in the tv. 

Then he looks at Eliot’s prosthetic leg, or accidentally closes a door on his tail, and realizes that yeah, it really fucking was. 

* * *

Quentin spends a lot of those first days thinking about confessing the truth of what happened in the vampire world. But he always finds some reason not to - they’re not sober enough, or Eliot wakes clammy and gasping from a nightmare, or suffers through some phantom leg pain. 

Quentin gets close one time, early one morning when he wakes warm and soft, Eliot draped across him like an extra blanket. And all Quentin wants is to be honest, to face it head-on because it’s going to become an issue - it already _is_ a goddamned issue - and experience tells him that the longer he lets it simmer, the more it’ll burn when it finally explodes. 

So he lets the words rise up in him until they reach his tongue; he can feel the shape of them, sense the way they taste. But then Eliot stirs a little, curling his fingers into Quentin’s side and pulling himself impossibly closer, and he loses his nerve. 

Quentin swallows the words back down; they’re bitter and acidic and slosh queasily in his stomach. 

* * *

A week passes and they’re all congregated around the table for lunch, finally beginning to think about dealing with the monster.

“We can’t just keep living down here forever,” Julia says, sitting with one leg folded beneath her, steam curling from the mug of tea she’s cradling in her hands.

“Yeah,” Josh says. “I’ve been cold for so long that my balls have fully retracted back into my body.”

“If I hear one more goddamned word about your junk, Hoberman—“

“What, Penny? What are you gonna do? What are _any of us_ going to do? We can’t leave, or an all-powerful monster thing will hunt us down and, best case scenario, stick us in some kind of fucked up alternate reality world for its amusement. Worst case? I don’t even know. Maybe it fucking EATS US.”

“God, I wish _someone_ would eat me,” Margo says. “Janet was kind of a prude and it’s been _months_.”

Eliot pats her hand sympathetically. “Sorry, Bambi, but the available options are severely limited.”

“Tell me about it. I’m about to go try and chat up the fucking bear.”

“It’s that sort of thinking that got you elected to High King.”

“Speaking of which, it would be really nice to get back to my goddamned kingdom sometime soon.” A real emotion crosses Margo’s face, just for a second, a wistful longing mixed with genuine concern; she wipes it away as fast as it came. “So we need a _plan,_ people.”

Everyone sits in silence for a long moment. Eliot lights a cigarette using that thing in his ankle and slides the pack across the table to Julia. Quentin stares at his half-empty bowl of soup, poking at a piece of chopped carrot with his spoon. Penny stares at Julia; Kady stares at Penny. 

Josh gets into the leftover pot brownies. 

“Seriously?” Kady says, arching an eyebrow.

“What?” Josh asks, mumbling around a mouthful. 

“You want to get high again. After all that time being blazed around the clock.”

“We’re talking about taking on an all-powerful monster that even the gods were scared of, one that turned Quentin into a weird blue alien thing and stole Eliot’s leg. Just the _idea_ of it is giving me anxiety.” He takes another bite. “So this shit is _medicinal._ ”

Wisely choosing to ignore Josh entirely, Julia exhales a thin stream of smoke and says, “I think we should start by learning everything we can about the monster,”

“We did that before we accidentally let it out,” Quentin reminds her. “It didn’t help.”

“But we didn’t have first-hand sources then.” She looks at him with soft eyes, understanding the difficulty of what she’s about to ask. “You guys spent what was, to you, _years_ in there, right? You had to have learned some stuff about it that could be useful.”

Quentin’s forehead creases and his gaze drifts down and away; the last thing he wants to do is talk about the thing that keeps him up at night, that makes him relive his awful deeds and death over and over again. But… “Yeah, okay, if you think it’ll help. I can tell you everything I know.”

Eliot stands, swinging his legs over the bench seat so fast he nearly knocks Margo to the floor. “I need some air,” he says, rushing to the front doors, sucking sharply on his cigarette. 

Margo goes to stand, then stops halfway. “Should I—?”

Quentin shakes his head. “No. This will probably be easier without him having to listen.”

What he doesn’t notice is that Eliot lifted one of Josh’s brownies from the table before he left. One of the magical ones, that reveals hidden truths.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, the doors bang open and Eliot strides up to the table, snags Quentin by the wrist, and drags him off to their room.

“You tried to _kill_ me? During _sex?_ ”

“Oh, fuck,” Quentin mutters, closing the door behind him. 

“That’s what was wrong in that reality before _Star Trek_. You were a vampire that tried to _murder_ me, and then when I had to… when you _died,_ you stole my memory.” Eliot’s pacing frantically back and forth across the small room, his long legs crossing it in just a couple of strides.

“You said it wasn’t my fault! That it was the monster!”

Eliot stops for a second, leaning down to get close to Quentin’s face. “I can’t be held responsible for the things I said while under the influence of _Star Trek_. Also, fuck _that_ , Quentin - I didn’t know what had really happened.”

“I wanted to tell you, El. When I first woke up in the medpod, I was going to tell you, but you didn’t want to deal with it right then.”

“We’ve been out for over a week now, Q! What about all that time?”

“You’ve had stuff to deal with; I didn’t want to add to it.” It sounds pathetic and Quentin knows it, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

He doesn’t want to admit that he was a coward.

Eliot resumes pacing, both to burn off his angry energy and have an excuse to avoid looking at Quentin.

“I’m so sorry, El,” Quentin says, soft and raw, feeling like the words have been torn out of his intestines. 

“Are you?” Eliot asks, narrowing his eyes at him. “Because I’m not pissed about the violence - I mean, that shit’s certainly not _okay_ , but you were a vampire. In some fucked up sort of way, I can understand that action. Primal, instinctive, evil, whatever. But what I can’t deal with is the _lie_. You erased my memory to cover it up, and then never told me the truth.”

“… I know.”

“And all that after what Fogg did to us! And when the monster stole our memories to make us into spies! You _knew_ how much it hurt to have everything stripped away from you, and you still did it to me anyway. To protect yourself.”

“No, Eliot, it— fuck, it was _not about me_. I just, I didn’t want you to have to carry around the weight of what I did to you, and then watching me die, just in case... in case I didn’t come back. If I died for real, I didn’t want you to blame yourself.”

Eliot stands tall, shoulders thrown back, voice deep and hard. “That wasn’t your decision to make.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I… I fucked up. I was being manipulated by a monster and the vampire part of me and I made a bad call. And none of that is— none of it’s an _excuse_ because there is no excuse, but I— I just...”

“Quentin, I trusted you. In that place, with everything that was happening, everything that was being done to us, you were the one constant in my life. The one thing that I could hold on to. And you just... _violated_ me.”

Quentin presses his hands to the side of his head as if he could squeeze the words out, block them from burrowing into his brain. “Fuck, El, please don’t say it like that, I was just—“

“What? What could you possibly say to me to make it okay?”

“I love you, Eliot,” Quentin says, small and quiet and even. He wants to cry but he’s too scared, worried that if he so much as breathes wrong it could be the last straw, the thing that severs him from Eliot forever. “More than I ever thought someone with my problems could love anyone. And I promise that I will never do anything that could make you doubt it again.”

Eliot just stares at him, his face utterly unreadable. 

In all the times that Quentin has thought of this - of this revelation, of how it would all shake out - he somehow never really imagined the possibility that it could be the _end_. That they couldn’t work past it, that Eliot would always fear and suspect him, that their time together would be over.

And now, for the first time, he truly lets himself consider that this might be it. That he might be staring at spending the rest of his life without Eliot, that the ground might give way beneath his feet, that the only solid thing he’s ever held might crumble to dust in his hands. Eliot has been his heart, his foundation, his north star, through more years than any human has the right to live. If Quentin were to lose him now… it wouldn’t kill him.

But he’d wish it had.

He feels like he’s trembling all the way in his liver.

“I love you, too,” Eliot finally says. It’s not soft or romantic - it’s a statement of fact, a resignation. 

A surrender.

Quentin lets out a relieved sob that he can’t choke back and steps tentatively toward him, giving Eliot every chance to stop him before gently sliding his arms around his waist, burying his head in his chest. 

“Are we going to be okay?” Quentin mumbles into his sweater.

Eliot sighs and combs his fingers through Quentin’s hair. “Yeah. Just… no more biting. _Ever_.”

* * *

But despite what Eliot says, they’re not anything that could be genuinely described as “okay.” 

There’s a new distance, an awkwardness - Eliot’s hand hesitating just a fraction before touching Quentin’s shoulder; Quentin’s eyes darting away from his a second too soon. 

So they throw themselves into research, searching for equal parts distraction and a new approach at defeating the monster. They join Julia in her quest for knowledge, combing through everything Brakebills South has to offer.

All they find are dead ends. And frustration. And a growing sense of dread. 

They start avoiding being alone together, spending more and more of their time in the common areas. 

On one such evening, Quentin is sitting with Julia in a pair of soft leather armchairs by the fire. He’s reading some obscure twelfth-century monastic text that seemed promising at first, but has so far contained nothing but vivid descriptions of magical STD symptoms. He stares in repulsed fascination at one of the illustrations, trying to decipher exactly which body part it’s supposed to represent, and absently fiddles with the earrings lining the shell of his left ear. 

“Never really thought I’d see you wearing so much jewelry, Q,” Julia teases, poking him with a sock-covered toe. 

“It wasn’t exactly a choice. It came with the blue skin.” 

“And the _tail_?” 

Quentin flicks his eyes up to her. “We don’t speak of the tail, Jules.” 

They laugh a little, because everything is horrible and what else are they going to do, but then Julia puts down her book and leans over, resting her hand on Quentin’s wrist. 

“I’m really sorry you’re having to deal with all of that, Q. I know what it’s like to have something done to your body that makes it feel like it’s not entirely _yours_ anymore. And I wish I could fix it for you.” 

Quentin’s face crumples a little, but he doesn’t say anything. He can’t; he feels like his throat is so thick that words wouldn’t make it out. 

And neither of them notice right away, because it’s just a small and subtle shift, but his skin is changing color under her hand.

It’s fading a little bit closer to its normal shade. 

* * *

The next morning, Julia’s deep in research mode. She’s sitting cross-legged on a saggy sofa in the library with an enormous textbook in her lap, Kady curled up next to her and helping slog through the translation. 

Eliot, searching to be anywhere other than where Quentin is, thumps down on her other side with a wince, rubbing at his thigh where the robotic leg attaches. The frigid temperatures down here are doing his injured leg no favors, making it chronically ache where the metal meets flesh. 

And Julia is so deeply entrenched in what she’s reading that she doesn’t even really notice when she instinctively reaches over, rests her hand on Eliot’s leg, and heals it. 

Just a little, just enough to ease his pain, strengthening some of the muscle fibers and regenerating a a few nerve endings. 

But Eliot feels the change right away. 

“Whoa…” he says, temporarily beyond words, stretching his leg out and staring with wide eyes at  first it, and then Julia. “That… that feels amazing. Thank you.”

“Actually,” Julia says, her book completely forgotten, her eyes glowing a faint gold, “thank _you._ I think I know how I’m going to get my powers back now.”

* * *

Julia sets up a schedule with Quentin and Eliot so she can routinely stretch her goddess powers, growing and exercising them the same way she gained them in the first place. - through selfless acts of kindness.

In this case, she’s de-alienizing Quentin, and regrowing Eliot’s leg. 

It’s tiring and time-consuming, but she’s fairly certain that by the time they’re healed she’ll be fully powered up again. 

Now she just has to figure out what to do with it.

* * *

“This is stupid,” Josh says one night after yet another lackluster dinner. He’s stopped shaving and his beard is coming in patchy and scraggly and, weirdly, sort of reddish. He looks like a peach that’s somehow contracted a bad case of mange. “It’s all just so fucking _stupid_ and I’m bored and I hate it.”

Margo shoves her bowl away from her, the spoon clattering against the pottery. “Mmhmm. Being stuck here sucks more than an ambitious prostitute on a Saturday night."

Kady laughs once, humorlessly, and leans back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. “For once, we actually agree on something.”

“Yeah, like, what was the point of getting our memories back - and springing you two from monster-soundstage-hell,” Josh says, gesturing to Quentin and Eliot, “if we’re just going to sit around here until we freeze to death or, I dunno, start _stabbing_ each other just for entertainment?”

Penny surreptitiously slides his butter knife off the table and out of Josh’s reach.

“I know, I know,” Quentin says. “But we sort of have a plan now - or an idea of a plan, or whatever - so you can’t just _go_. This monster… you don’t understand. We can’t—“

“—Can’t fight it, yeah, we’ve heard,” Margo says. “But I really just want to go home.”

“At least you know where _home_ is,” Quentin mutters.

“Oh, it’s the same place for all of us,” she says, flapping her hand at him. “Just come to Fillory and I’ll crown all your stupid asses.”

The room falls quiet, everyone looking at each other with varying degrees of unease; Julia rubs her thumb over the crescent moon tattoo on her finger, and Kady toys with a pull in the knit of her cream sweater. 

“And then we would do what, exactly?” Penny finally asks. 

“Whatever the fuck you want,” Margo says, waving her drink in the air. “You’ll be _royalty_.”

Quentin swallows, and then quietly says, “I’m not sure that’s enough anymore.” He cuts his gaze to Eliot, watching him with trepidation. 

But to his surprise, Eliot simply nods along with him. 

Discomfited, Margo looks at them all in turn. “Don’t be stupid. What else would you do?”

No one has an answer for that.

* * *

Outside the windows, the snow is relentless in its constant, silent fall, swirling on the bitter wind. It feels like being inside of a snow globe - or trapped under the bell jar, depending on how everyone’s feeling on any particular day.

Time passes, and no one takes much note of it.

* * *

“You have to stop avoiding having a real conversation with Margo,” Quentin says, cornering Eliot outside the bathroom one afternoon. Eliot’s curls are still wet, dark and dripping into the neck of the fluffy white towel he’s bundled into. “She’s pissed and frustrated and she’s taking it out on everyone else.”

“Has blood been drawn yet?”

“There was a near-miss where Kady almost punched her, but we distracted them with food and some vintage porn we found in Mayakovsky’s office.”

“That’s good,” Eliot says, tightening the belt on his robe a little. “For Kady’s sake, anyway - my money’s on Bambi in any fight. Always.”

Quentin throws his hands in the air, exasperated. “So why don’t you tell her that? Or that you missed her? Or that you hate those stupid fucking bangs Janet cut? Fuck, Eliot, just tell her _anything_.”

“I can’t,” Eliot says, trying to figure out how someone as small as Quentin has managed to physically box him into a corner where he can’t escape. “I _killed_ her, Q. I murdered her. You of all people should understand how a thing like that can come between two people.” 

There’s a bite there, one that Quentin accepts with a small grimace. 

And then he sighs and steps a little closer to Eliot, close enough that he can smell his cologne and the laundry detergent off his robe, to feel the warmth of his skin even before taking his hand. He’s gentle and cautious, because they still aren’t in a good enough place where casual touches are expected and normal. 

But Eliot allows it, and Quentin runs his fingers lightly across his palm, over and over. “It’s not the same. That wasn’t really Margo, so you didn’t do anything to her.”

“Then why do I have nightmares about it almost every time I fall asleep? Why can I see my fingers wrapped around her throat, and the way her _eyes_ looked, and—“

“Because the monster fucked with us, El, that’s why.” Quentin looks down the hallway toward Margo’s room. “Don’t let it fuck with us anymore.”

* * *

“So anyway,” Eliot says, laughing, his voice a little hoarse from spending the last three hours talking, “we’re standing there on the street corner, about to get our faces chewed on by _zombies,_ and then you come driving up in this ridiculous Hummer, mowing them all down and literally saving our asses.”

“Of course I did,” Margo says, grinning and curling further into his lap. “It’s kind of my job to save you two idiots.”

Eliot nods and takes a deep breath, letting their smiles fade away. He presses his lips together, his gaze drifting down to his hands, which look so large resting on Margo’s small, beige-legging-clad knees. He’d never thought of her as delicate or fragile before - because god knows she isn’t either of those things - but he can’t seem to get the idea out of his head ever since he watched the life drain out of her face.

It’s time to say what he’s been avoiding all this time. 

“It wasn’t all weaponry and four-wheel-drive and conquering-hero type shit, though. Not everything was fun, or nice - even that reality. It— it didn’t end well. For you.”

Margo hums and shifts her weight a little, just enough that she can reach up, take his face between her hands, and force him to meet her eyes. 

“It wasn’t real, Eliot. I know it feels like it, and for you, it kind of was real. But that wasn’t me. My ass was sitting in my posh apartment, drinking too much champagne, making questionable hairstyle choices, and getting chauffeured around by _Josh,_ of all people. I wasn’t where you were.” She licks her lips a little, pressing her fingertips into his scalp. “So anything that happened to me in that nightmare world? You don’t have to carry that anymore.”

Eliot nods, but he looks away; it’s clear he doesn’t believe her.

“Hey,” Margo says. “There is no unshitty solution to any of this, for any of us. We’ve been thoroughly dicked around with, and we’ve just got to learn how to deal with it.” She smiles at him and squeezes his cheeks a little, gently. “But you’re greater than what’s been done to you, and you’re more than what you’ve lost.”

He takes a shaky breath and blinks furiously, fighting back the tears. 

“Jesus,” he finally says, voice thick, "listen to us being all emotional and genuine.”

“I know, it’s disgusting.” Margo hops off his lap and reaches a hand out to him. “Come on. Let’s go get drunk and throw snowballs at Mayakovsky.”

* * *

More time passes - no one is keeping track of how much anymore - until one morning they’re all sitting around the table eating bland bowls of oatmeal and the front door flies open in a blast of arctic air and flurry of snow. 

Kady’s hands are halfway though a battle magic spell and Margo has drawn the dagger she’s been keeping strapped to her thigh. Penny, grateful that Julia’s holed up in the library and out of the line of fire, gets ready to travel them out.

 Because they’re all sure that it’s the monster, finally come to exact its revenge - or, if they’re lucky, it’s the Library, or maybe even Fogg. Someone they have a fighting chance against. 

No one is expecting Alice to appear, every bit as chaotic and powerful as the storm. 

“Oh, thank god you’re all here,” she says. “I did all these locator spells and none of you showed up - so the only options were that you were here or dead. I was worried.” 

No one speaks for a moment. Margo definitely does not put down her knife; if anything, her grip tightens a little.

“Alice…” Quentin finally says, hollow and awestruck, as if he’s speaking to a ghost. This place will always be a little haunted by his memories of her, and in the bluish light she’s so pale that she’s practically translucent; having her actually be _here,_ alive and present, is bizarre and disorienting. There’s so many questions, so much that confuses him. 

So he goes for the simplest. “How did you get here?” 

“With a little help,” a familiar voice says, walking through the swirling snow behind her. 

“Penny,” Kady breathes, running at him and jumping up, hooking her legs around his waist as she kisses him. They’re laughing and crying and can’t stop kissing; he swings her around in circles before finally setting her down. 

He keeps his arms looped around her waist, Kady’s face pressed into the bend of his neck. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I am really fucking happy to see you assholes,” he says, looking them over, raising his chin at Penny23. “What up, other me.”

“You… know about me?”

“Alice filled me in, you know, in between getting my body back, breaking the siphon, killing Zelda, and destroying the Library.”

Quentin drops the book he was reading and it hits the floor with a loud _thunk_ , the sound echoing and filling the room. “Wait, _what_?”

“Yeah, I’m going to need you to explain _alllll_ of that,” Josh says, gesturing at Alice and Penny40 and the entire rest of the world beyond the front door. “And use small words, because I’m high as fuck.”

Alice sinks onto the wooden bench beside Quentin, keeping her hands carefully folded in her lap. Eliot definitely does _not_ notice how close they’re sitting, or the way it makes some anxious, slimy thing coil tight and deep within his chest.

“There’s a lot of stuff that happened,” she says, in her usual brusque manner, “but the condensed version is that there’s another time loop’s version of me trapped in the underworld branch of the library. Apparently, she signed a contract so the library would help defeat the Beast, but they were as useless as always and everyone died anyway. But she was still stuck in her billion year contract, and since time works so differently in the Underworld, she’s already served like a thousand years. She’s ancient and she’s powerful and she knows everything - all we had to do was follow her instructions. She built Penny a body and sent him to break me out. Everything after that was pretty easy; the Library was on the verge of self-destruction anyway. Even _they_ couldn’t handle that volume of paperwork." 

She takes a deep breath, everyone staring at her with varying levels of disbelief. 

“You killed book bitch?” Margo asks, impressed in spite of herself. 

“Not exactly,” Alice answers, her blond hair a sheet sliding over one cheek. “The mob sort of... took care of that part.”

“The mob? We talking some _Godfather_ -type shit here or—“

“No, I mean an actual mob. The Library’s workforce consisted of approximately 97% indentured servants, like Penny was. As soon as we freed magic for them and they saw a chance to escape, they took it. Destroyed their contracts, trashed the place - burned a lot of it - and, well, _eliminated_ their oppressors.”

“It was extremely badass,” Penny40 adds, with his hand resting on the curve of Kady’s ass. 

Alice pushes her glasses up her nose. “So what are you guys doing about stopping the monster?”

Everyone shifts and fidgets, looking anywhere but at Alice. Quentin sort of shrugs, or half-shrugs - he kind of just raises his shoulders up a little and keeps them there, turtle-style. “Hiding?” 

“Researching,” Penny23 says. “Well, Julia’s researching. And building her goddess power back up by healing those two morons.”

Eliot rises, stubbing out his cigarette and pouring Alice a vodka with zero regard to the fact that it’s not even ten in the morning. “The rest of us are mostly just drinking copiously,” he answers, handing the glass to her with a little flourish. “Join us, won’t you?”

Alice takes a nervous sip, failing to hide her grimace; she never was much of a drinker. “You know that’s not actually a solution, right? The monster can find you the same way I did - it’ll just take it a little longer because it doesn’t know about this place.”

“We’re working on it,” Quentin says.

“Are we?” Josh asks. “Are we _really_?”

Oblivious to everything that’s happened, Julia wanders in with a pencil stuck through her bun and her face still buried in a book. “Hey, Penny?” she asks.

“Yeah?” they both answer. Julia looks up, surprised. 

Eliot sighs. “This is going to get complicated.”

* * *

“He always means well, you know,” Julia says, meaningfully. 

She’s sitting on the hard desk chair in her little dorm room, Eliot stretched across her bed as he waits for her to treat his leg again.

Apparently, they’re going to have to talk about Quentin first. 

Eliot sighs. “I used to believe that.”

“You still should.” She lights a cigarette, taking her time with it, thinking about exactly what she wants to say. “I know something happened between you two. Something serious. And I’m not going to pry - that is _so_ not my place - but, whatever it is, remember the circumstances you were in. Remember that Q, _our_ Q, loves people so hard that it hurts him a lot of the time. And he loves you and me more than anyone else - which means he’s going to fuck it up more than he does with anyone else.” 

Eliot raises a finger, ready to interrupt, but she’s not having it. 

“ _And_ you have to remember that what you two have is special, and precious, and really fucking rare. It’s not to be thrown away casually.”

Eliot frowns with more than just his mouth; it’s as if his whole body is uncomfortable and disapproving. “No, I— I’m not throwing anything away.”

“Then you’ve got to stop freezing him out. Forgive,” Julia says, pointing at him with the lit cigarette, “or cut him free.”

Eliot recoils at just the words, the very idea of severing himself from Quentin giving him a feeling like a black hole has opened up at the pit of his stomach. “Okay,” he says eventually, softly. “I will.”

“Good,” she says with a nod, knocking ash off the tip of her cigarette. “Because I need to talk to you about something else, and I don’t want to be angry with you anymore.”

Eliot laughs. “I can see why Q loves you so much.”

She looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re as relentless as Margo,” he says, dark eyes glittering. “Just with better table manners.”

She smiles and reaches over to him, her eyes beginning to glow as she restores a little bit more of his leg.

* * *

No one has seen Kady or Penny40 since he arrived, but there are no soundproofing wards in the world strong enough to prevent everyone from knowing _exactly_ what they’ve been up to. 

* * *

Eliot walks into the dorm he shares with Quentin in the middle of the afternoon and Quentin stands, scooping up his books and papers and getting ready to leave. He doesn’t even have to bother making an excuse; this dance they’re doing around one another has become so routine that Eliot probably expects it. Expects Quentin to run, to hide, to give Eliot his space yet again—

—But Quentin’s just so fucking _tired_ of it. He stops, his hand still resting on the doorknob, his head dropping down onto his chest. 

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says, so low and broken that he sounds less like a man and more like a rusty, worn-out bit of machinery. “I don’t have any idea of what else to do, El - I said I was sorry like a million times.”

Eliot’s voice is a little hoarse, too. “I know.”

Quentin turns to face him, his vision already swimming with unshed tears. “And you said that you understood, that it wasn’t really my fault.”

“I know that, too.”

“So what is happening here? You don’t touch me, you can barely stand to _look_ at me most of the time. Are we…” Quentin trails off in a shaking voice, blinking a little too fast. He can’t quite get the words out; he’s terrified of the answer.

He remembers trying to stop Alice from leaving him that time at the cottage, after magic had died and she’d come back to life and nothing was the way it was supposed to be. When he’d been trying so desperately to stuff everything back into the same shape it had taken before, but it no matter what he did, it just wouldn’t fit. Their lives were all stretched and shredded, scraps that were beginning to get stitched back together in new and different ways, but he hadn’t wanted to see it, wasn’t willing to face it. 

So she’d left. And the last thing she’d said was, “I thought I could forgive you, but I can’t.”

And he’d felt like she’d taken all the oxygen in the room with her when she went. 

And now, standing here with Eliot so rigid and distant, Quentin can’t help but realize that this moment is just going to be a rerun of that one. It’s as if he’s already been tossed over the cliff and he’s trying to cling to it with broken, bloody fingernails, but he’s too far gone to have any real chance of saving himself. 

In every meaningful way, he’s already a dead man. He just hasn’t hit bottom yet. 

Because he knows, he just _knows,_ that Eliot is going to say those same words.

And Quentin doesn’t think he’ll ever recover. He’s shaking; he leans back into the door, his knees no longer solid enough to feel like they’ll support his weight. They certainly can’t withstand the blow that’s coming.

… Except it doesn’t. Because this isn’t Alice. This isn’t that dysfunctional train wreck of a relationship. 

Eliot stares at him for a long second, all straight back and poker face, and then he seems to _melt_. He sighs, his whole body deflating with that exhaled breath, and crosses the room, pulling Quentin into his chest. 

“ _We,_ ” he says, resting a gentle hand on the back of Quentin’s now-almost-normal-colored head, “are going to be fine.”

Quentin twists his fingers in Eliot’s sweater, clinging, breathing in the familiar skin and soap and smoke smell of him. “You said that before,” he manages to say, his voice thick.

“I know. And I meant it before. I just… I’m having a harder time dealing with it than I had anticipated.” Eliot’s large hand is rubbing small circles across Quentin’s back, and he presses his face into the top of Quentin’s hair. “But I will, Q. I _will._ We might not be fine yet, but we will get there. I promise you.”

Quentin lifts his face, tentatively, and Eliot bends down to kiss him. And there, meeting in the middle, they manage to ease some of the tension, chipping away at a bit of the frozen space between them.

* * *

Julia’s power is building, growing, expanding - it feels warm and right and strong within her - but that doesn’t mean that she’s not struggling. Because in her quiet moments, when she can’t keep her brain busy with research or strategizing or drinking, she’s still being forced to grapple with the memories of everything that has happened to her. 

She’s already done the nearly-impossible work of processing it all once before, and she had healed - she still _is_ healed - but she’d forgotten how much it weighs, what a burden the past can be. In her quiet, simple life as Kim the Architect, she’d been weightless and carefree. Carrying this knowledge around once more is… draining. 

Exhausting, if she’s honest. 

And she doesn’t really have the time to devote to growing accustomed to it once again, because she’s too busy figuring out how in the hell she’s going to stop a monster that is, by all accounts, utterly unconquerable. 

Penny23 stays nearby - sitting at the table across from her, or just checking in every couple of hours while she’s holed up in the library - and she’s surprised at how comforting she finds his presence. He’s a calm, soothing, welcome distraction from all the books and scrolls and various magical machinery, some of which gives off so much power that he sometimes finds it difficult to look at. 

One such afternoon, she’s sitting at the giant table in the common room and struggling through a bad translation of Koine Greek and suddenly Penny is there, quiet and steady and setting a bowl of steaming potato soup and a fresh, buttered roll in front of her. It’s not the first or fifth or even twentieth time he’s done something like this - but this time, instead of retreating and giving her the usual space, he reaches across the table and gently rests his hand on top of hers. It’s warm and strong and soft, his touch light but trembling a little, his veins and tendons straining against the skin. 

And she finds that she doesn’t want it to stop.

She lifts her thumb, experimentally, and slides it gently over the edge of his palm; she can hear him swallow thickly across from her.

“You know,” he says, “it doesn’t all have to be about power and saving people - you’re allowed to want things for yourself.”

“Things?” she asks, so softly she wonders if he hears it.

He does.

“Things. People. Whatever you want, Julia, you can have it. You can have it all.” He smiles at her a little, soft and hopeful. “You show all this kindness and mercy to everyone; you’re allowed to save a little of that for yourself, too.”

Something deep inside her warms at his words - and a completely different something in her brain snags on them. 

“Kindness and mercy,” she muses. “Kindness and _mercy.”_

Her whole body goes utterly still for a moment, and she’s thinking so hard that Penny can practically _see_ the neurons firing inside her head.

And then she smiles a little, a knowing curve tilting the corners of her mouth as she sits up straighter in her chair. “Q and Eliot keep saying we can’t fight this monster. That _no one_ can fight it. So what if we just... don’t?”

Penny raises his eyebrows. “What, we hide down here forever?” He shrugs one shoulder, gently tracing his fingers across the top of her hand. “I’m okay with that as long as you are.”

“No, not hiding - but not fighting, either. What if the answer is that we do the opposite? We show kindness and mercy.” She squeezes his hand, her face splitting into a wide grin, and then regretfully lets him go.

She needs to start scribbling out some notes. 

“I think I might know how to save us.”

* * *

“Do you think it would have worked?” Quentin asks. The room is dark and they’ve been curled up in bed for at least an hour, but he knows Eliot hasn’t managed to fall asleep.

And, sure enough, he responds immediately. “What do you mean?” 

“Transporting out of the monster’s tv. If Penny hadn’t found us, do you think we would have been able to use the _Star Trek_ tech to transport out of there?” 

Eliot laughs a little, dry and humorless. “I think the monster just wanted to be entertained, and the second we stopped providing that it probably would have scattered our disassembled atoms across the universe and found itself some new playthings.” 

Quentin hums a little, trailing his fingers softly over the sensitive skin of Eliot’s side. “Then why did you go along with it?”

“Because I could see that you were determined to escape, no matter what it cost us to get out - and I know why, now. But at the time, I just… I knew I couldn’t talk you out of it, and I didn’t want to stay without you. No matter what it cost.”

Quentin rolls them a little, pulling Eliot down over him until he’s pinned between the mattress and Eliot’s body, the weight pressing his hips into the creaky old springs. Eliot’s chest pushes against him in the slow, regular rhythm of his breath, his forearms taut and braced around Quentin’s head, his eyes glistening in the bit of firelight coming from the glowing coals in their room’s tiny wood-burning stove. Quentin’s trapped; he couldn’t move if he wanted to. But he feels safe and secure. He’s solid and present and warm from the inside out.

And then Eliot kisses him - _really_  kisses him - for the first time since he remembered what happened.

* * *

“Come on, Q, do that thing to my ear that I like.”

“That’s nibbling. That involves teeth. And you said—“

“Fuck, Coldwater, you bastard. Fine. I take it back. Biting is okay. Just no blood.”

Quentin’s hand goes still, wrapped around both Eliot’s cock and his, his hips stopping their rhythm of fucking his fist. He frowns, unsure. “I don’t know if that’s a great idea. I don’t want it to bring back anything for you or—“

“It _won’t._ Look, Quentin, I’m a big boy.”

“I’m aware,” Quentin answers, with a cocky smile and a flick of his wrist.

Eliot closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing back a moan. “What I mean is that I can make decisions for myself. If I decide that I’m okay with a little playful nibbling again, then I’m really okay with it. And you have to trust me.”

Quentin nods. “Okay.”

He goes to resume their earlier activities, but Eliot shakes his head. “Wait.”

Quentin stops immediately. “Yeah, okay, I get it, I’m sorry—“

“No, that’s not it. It’s just… I just realized that with another session or two with Julia, that tail of yours will probably disappear.”

The wary look on Quentin’s face reappears, double its earlier intensity. “Yeah, and…?”

“And I told you - I have _plans_ for that tail first.”

Without further warning, Eliot does the spell Quentin’s seen him do thousands of times during their life in Fillory, and he feels himself expand and become lubricated. He can’t help it - he moans a little in anticipation. 

But then something unexpected happens. “Okay, now you do me,” Eliot says. 

“I thought the whole idea was for you to do _me,”_ Quentin answers. “I’m ready here.”

“We’re going to do each other. Me in you. Your tail in me.”

Quentin blinks.

He’s a little weirded out by the idea - mostly because he’s never quite come to accept the tail. It seems like one more reminder of everything that he’s been through, of what’s been taken away from him. But it’s as sensitive as everything else, and he has muscle control over it, and the way Eliot is looking at him is pretty convincing. 

“Come on, Q. Let’s send your tail off with a _bang_.”

* * *

“Oh god,” Eliot says, laughing, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You remember that time you were changing his diaper and Teddy peed all over you? And Arielle just stood there, laughing so hard at your dripping face that she almost peed herself?”

They’re sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, Eliot’s sock-covered feet resting in Quentin’s lap as they pass one of the vodka bottles back and forth. It’s somewhere around two a.m., but with the strange Antarctic sunlight and the fact that they haven’t left the building in weeks, time doesn’t seem to matter much. 

“Yeah, and you were _so_ much help,” Quentin replies, loaded with sarcasm. 

“I had things to do, a mosaic to solve, a quest to complete,” Eliot ticks each one off on his fingers. “I couldn't be wasting time dealing with your family’s urinary issues.”

“ _Our_ family,” Quentin corrects, for what has to be the thousandth time. “It was _our_ family, El.”

Talking about that life, even drunk, even in the quiet middle of the night with just Eliot and the firelight to hear him, feels painful and bittersweet. Quentin can’t tell if his heart is still being broken or slowly made whole again; they seem to carry equal amounts of pain. 

Maybe it’s really all the same thing.

Eliot wiggles his toes in Quentin’s lap and smiles. “Yes, I know. _Our_ family.” The smile shifts from warm and genuine to cat-like. “Our family that peed directly in your face.”

“Yeah, well, fast-forward like fifty years and the same goddamned thing happened all over again the first time I tried to change Merlin’s diaper.” 

Eliot _cackles_. “God, I wish I could have seen that.”

“Me, too.” Quentin stares at Eliot’s profile in the firelight, the way the orange reflects off his dark eyes and hair, highlights the prominence of his cheekbones and jawline, casting his cheeks and neck into deep shadow. It makes him think of the ball in Austen-land, of the chandeliers and candelabras and Eliot’s breeches and dance-flushed cheeks and their almost kiss. “It was kind of… fun in there, you know? Sometimes anyway,” he adds quickly, hoping that it doesn’t prod too sharply at the recently-healed wound of Quentin’s actions as a vampire.

But Eliot just smiles. “It was,” he agrees, his face soft and wistful. “I kind of miss it, in a strange way.”

And for the first time, Quentin starts thinking about life after the monster. Julia’s plan is nearly ready, and he has every confidence in her that it’s going to work.

So it’s time for Quentin to start doing some research of his own.

* * *

“There’s no need for you two to come with me,” Julia says, loosely holding Quentin’s hand, the half-dozen rings on her fingers cold where they touch his skin. His beautifully, wonderfully, thoroughly Quentin-colored skin. “I’m perfectly capable of doing this on my own.”

“Oh, we know,” Eliot says, scrunching his newly regrown toes inside his shoe. 

“But we have to go,” Quentin finishes. “For us. For closure, or whatever.” 

Julia nods, understanding. “Okay, then. You guys ready?” 

Eliot wraps Quentin’s other hand in his. “Onward to glory.”

And Julia transports them. It’s so much easier than traveling with Penny, as if the magic reflects the person it lives within. Hitching a ride with their resident misanthropic traveler feels like being whipped off the ground by a tornado that proceeds to rip a hole in the universe and unceremoniously shove their asses right through it; Julia moves them as easily as breathing. They blink, and they’re simply in a different place.

Unfortunately, this place is not one Quentin ever really wanted to be in again. 

It’s that same blank white space where this whole thing began, and a part of him feels like no time at all has passed since they were kidnapped off the street; the other part is convinced that it’s been literal eons. Quentin squeezes Eliot’s hand and tries to breathe evenly. 

The monster is there in a little powder-blue suit; as soon as they appear he rushes toward them, smiling and clapping. “Oh, good, you’re back! You were both _so excellent_ in your roles! It was so exciting! Didn’t you have so much _fun?_ ”

Quentin, Eliot, and Julia share a quick, confused - but immensely relieved - look. Apparently there will be no bloodshed here today.

They hope.

“Yes, _fun,_ ” Julia says. “That’s actually why we’re here. The guys had a great time, but they really wanted _you_ to be able to have fun, too. I mean, watching tv is great and all, but wouldn’t it be much better if you could be the _star_?”

She’s smiling and speaking with too much enthusiasm, as if she were talking to an actual child rather than a practically all-powerful ancient creature currently wearing a child’s visage.

But it’s the right approach; the monster rolls its little eyes and scuffs a shoe across the white expanse, frowning down at its feet. “Well, _duh,_ of _course,_ but I can’t. I have to create it and control it, so I can’t be in it, too. That’s why I have my two favorite people do the acting for me!” He looks back up at Quentin and Eliot and smiles, his lips and teeth stained a faint blue.

Eliot remembers the spinal fluid Slurpee and feels his stomach flip over.

“But what if you _could?_ ” Julia asks, letting her eyes glow a little. “I’m a goddess, and I can build worlds. So let me build one for you.”

The monster squints, looking her over skeptically. “Why would you would do that for me?” 

“Because I have been given this power to help, to fix things. And I’d like to help you. You’re maybe a little… _chaotic_ , perhaps, but you’re not evil. I talked to your friends here, and they think that, at your core, you’re just hungry for new experiences. You’ve spent your whole life locked up, and that had to be really boring.”

It rolls its eyes again, flopping dramatically to the floor. “ _Yes,_ you have no idea _._ I’m always just so _boooooored._ ”

“So let me help you. Let me give you your own private tv world, where all of the power is coming from me, and you’ll always be surprised and excited at what happens next.”

Eliot and Quentin hold their breath; this is the moment everything hangs on. There is no back-up plan, no other way out of this. If Julia’s theory is wrong - if the monster truly _is_ evil, if it wants more than just entertainment - then they could all be about to die.

But its whole face lights up in a smile. 

* * *

“It’s done,” Julia tells everyone when they get back to Brakebills South a few hours later. “The monster is safely installed in its own little private pocket universe, where it will be thoroughly entertained for the next several thousand years - and also completely unable to escape.”

“Not that I think it will want to,” Eliot says. “When we left, it was in a car chase through San Francisco with Steve McQueen. That was essentially my recurrent wet dream through my adolescence - no way anyone chooses to leave that.”

“Wow,” Kady says, raking her fingers through the roots of her hair and shaking out her curls. “So no more monster, and no more Library. I guess that means we can leave any time we like.”

“Damn,” Josh says. “After all this time, the solution was kind of anticlimactic. Boring, even.”

But Quentin can’t agree. He’s spent his time in Antarctica feeling like his heart was being steamrolled paper-flat and then folded origami-style into something complicated and new. 

Something good. 

But not something boring. 

“Well, I guess that’s it, then,” Margo says. “Vámanos.”

“Wait, there’s one more thing,” Quentin says, Eliot looking at him curiously. “I mean, sure, everything’s great and shit right now, but let’s be real here - we’re us. Which means the universe is bound to royally fuck us all over again.”

“And again,” Julia says.

“And again,” says Kady.

“And then kill us, and fuck us over some more,” Penny40 adds.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Quentin exclaims, pointing at them. “So let’s try to be smart about this, and not let it fuck us in the same way next time.”

Margo hums in agreement. “Yeah, we should at least get it to change positions. This whole memory-wipe thing was some reverse cowgirl type of shit - we had to do all the work and got nothing out of it except frustration.” 

“So let’s make sure that nothing can wipe our minds again,” Quentin says. “I’ve been going through Mayakovsky’s texts and trying to tweak the memory potion, to make something that would make us impervious to it.”

“Like an Emerson’s Alloy.”

“Yeah, but that could be taken away. I want something _permanent._ And I’ve got most of it, but there’s one piece that I’m missing—“

“I think I could help with that,” Penny40 offers. 

Everyone stares, because it’s like watching a comet that will only pass by Earth every seventy years or so - Penny is offering to help Quentin. Willingly. 

“Huh,” Eliot says. “Character growth. Amazing.”

“Shut up,” Penny40 mutters, tugging at his sleeve to reveal a mangled tattoo on his upper arm. “I got this when my mentor told me to limit myself to astral projection. It binds your body to earth, so maybe we could do a variation on that. Bind your spirit to your body.”

Penny23 blinks, surprised. “Yeah,” he says. “I think that would probably work.”

Alice and Julia are already studying it, Alice reaching for the notebook she keeps in her bag to start making notes, doing calculations and preliminary sketches. 

Which is how they have a workable design in under an hour.

“Now we just need someone who can tattoo it on us.”

Kady just lifts the tattoo gun she’d pilfered from Mayakovsky’s supplies and turns it on, the buzz echoing around the cavernous space.

* * *

Quentin is thoroughly drunk by the time they’ve all finished getting tattooed, the vodka reducing the pain to an irritating, itching sort of feeling as Kady inks the sigil onto the top of his arm, the part that used to be prosthetic. It felt right to have her put it there, to mark the journey that led him from a healthy shoulder to a wooden one to a blue one and all the way back around.

“I don’t think I ever want to drink vodka again,” Eliot says, even as he tosses back the last of his drink.

“Yeah, we’ll see how you feel in a week, sweetie,” Margo says, patting his arm. 

Then she frowns, realizing that she actually has no idea how he’ll feel in a week. She’ll be ruling Fillory. He’ll be with Quentin, doing… whatever it is that they decide to go do.

Because this is what it has come to - time for everyone to head out their separate ways. There’s no more quest, nothing that needs to be fixed or saved. No one can go back to school and finish their degree - Brakebills is Fogg’s problem now. And there’s no reason for anyone except Margo to be in Fillory. They’re just… people. With lives to fill with whatever they choose.

It’s fucking _terrifying._

“Well,” Margo says, lifting her chin a little higher. “I’ve got a kingdom to run. You two come home soon, okay?” 

“Soon as we figure out where that is,” Quentin says. 

“Haven’t you learned? Home’s not really a _place._ It’s people.” She looks around at everyone and can’t help but smile. “So you lucky bastards have at least seven homes.” 

Eliot loops his arms around her waist. “That means that you do, too.” 

“As it should be,” she says, her chin wobbling a little; she hides it by pressing a firm kiss to his lips.

She gives Quentin’s hand an affectionate squeeze, summons the Fillory clock—

—and Josh steps up beside her.

“I’m coming with you.”

Margo glares. “Like hell you are.”

“Well, not _with_ you, with you. I don’t want to live in the palace or anything,” he says, slinging a bag stuffed full of supplies over one shoulder. “Fillory is in desperate need of a little herbal enlightenment, and so, being the humble humanitarian that I am, I shall provide it. I’m gonna open the first Fillorian magical dispensary.”

It’s stupid and irritating and such a _Josh_ sort of idea that Margo just sighs, like she should have been expecting this. “Are you at least going to offer me a High King discount?”

Josh grins. “I will if you’re open to some exciting promotional opportunities. I’ve already got the concept - the ad reads ‘The Truly _High_ King’ and features a picture of you wearing just your crown, holding a strategically-placed bong and… actually, let’s just discuss the specifics later.”

He wisely stop talking before Margo slaps him. 

And Quentin’s certain that Josh is about to leave Antarctica with more assholes than he arrived with because Margo’s going to tear him several new ones, but she just shakes her head, almost _smiling_ a little. 

What the _fuck._

“Just make sure you get a business permit and pay your goddamned taxes,” she says, and steps into the clock, never looking back. Josh scampers along behind her, an enormous smile across his face.

* * *

The other departures happen just as quickly, Penny23 traveling out and Julia goddessing herself to who knows where after long hugs for everyone. Penny40 grabs Kady, and Alice asks them for a ride.

“Where to?”

“The Neitherlands,” she replies. “The Library was a good idea, just horribly executed. I think I’m going to try to do better.”

She takes Penny40’s hand and looks up at Quentin, her eyes a little sad; in answer, his are clear and soft and fond. She adjusts her glasses, summons a small smile for herself, and then they’re gone.

“Well?” Eliot asks, smoothing down his sweater and straightening the cuffs. “Where to?”

“I’ve been giving that a lot of thought,” Quentin answers.

“You? Thinking about something obsessively? I’m _stunned,_ ” Eliot replies, drolly.

Quentin tucks his hair behind his ears and steps closer into Eliot’s space. “I’ve been thinking that I… I kind of miss it, sometimes.”

There could be a thousand potential _it_ s in that sentence, but Eliot knows which one Quentin means. “Being inside the tv.”

“Yeah. It was kind of exciting - in between all the horror.”

“Truthfully, I kind of miss it, too.”

Quentin hooks his fingers in the waistband of Eliot’s pants, tugging their bodies flush together. “So why can’t we just… do something like that? We’re magicians, after all - it’s not like we have to worry about money. So let’s just decide to do something, and go do it.”

“Hold our own remote controls, so to speak,” Eliot says, with a lascivious smirk.

“Or each other’s, you know, whatever you’re into.”

Eliot laughs and wraps his arm around Quentin’s shoulders. “So what do you want to do first?”

Quentin smiles.


	11. That's All, Folks

**New Year’s Eve**

 

“Well, this is awkward.”

Quentin is standing ankle-deep in white sugar sand, the sunset painting the horizon in brilliant pinks and burning oranges. He’s trying to wrangle his hair into some type of knot, but the persistent ocean breeze keeps whipping chunks of it loose and twisting them across his face.

Eliot stands beside him looking like a flawless model in a glossy fashion magazine, posing in magically wrinkle-free linen pants and giving off a carefully crafted boho beach vibe.

Something starts biting Quentin’s ankle, there’s a bead of sweat running down the crack of his ass, and the sand between his toes is making his feet itch.

He’s more than a little annoyed.

Mostly because, after making their way halfway around the world (which, considering that they’re magicians, was admittedly not as difficult as it sounds - but still) and thoughtfully bringing a very nice bottle of single malt scotch and some exotic potted plant that Eliot carefully selected as housewarming gifts, they were informed that half of their little party wouldn’t be in attendance.

They were supposed to be spending New Year’s Eve with Kady and Julia and the two Pennys at their new home. Since leaving Antarctica, those four have formed some sort of loose, polyamorous quadrangle - _a rhombus_ , Quentin thinks, proud to remember his eighth-grade geometry - that’s theoretically based in this thatched-roofed hut on a Tahitian beach but actually spends most of the time bouncing around the cosmos. Given that half the group consists of travelers and Julia is a _goddess,_ location simply isn’t that important.

And Quentin’s not sure how the relationship between the two Pennys works - is fucking an alternate timeline version of yourself just some form of next-level masturbation? - but he has decided he definitely doesn’t want to know. The thought alone is enough to give him some disturbing nightmares.

But still, it would have been fun, ringing in the New Year with the four of them - except that apparently there’s some major, extinction-level crisis threatening one of the new worlds Julia has built, so she and Penny23 have gone to deal with it. Which leaves Quentin, Eliot, Kady, and Penny40 stuck together.

Like he said when they first arrived. Awkward.

But Kady just sort of ignores him, stomping through the sand and snapping her fingers, lighting half a dozen tiki torches that cordon off the little section of beach in front of her hut. Not that it’s necessary to mark their territory - there’s not another soul in sight.

Except for Penny40 and his perpetual scowl.

_Still_ , Quentin tells himself with a deep, steadying breath, _it’s not so bad_. He’s with Eliot, and they’re standing on a gorgeous beach in Tahiti instead of dealing with the cold gray of the London winter.

That’s where they’ve been for the last two months, Quentin working part-time in a little antiques shop nestled down a narrow side road in the East End, and Eliot working full-time warming a barstool at The Pride of Spitalfields, the local pub.

It’s been a quiet life so far, just checking items off their cheesy sightseeing lists. Not exactly the kind of adventure Quentin might have once imagined for himself, but it feels nice to have a place with so much history under his feet and the same flat to return to every night. He drinks a lot of tea and wears delightfully hideous jumpers and tinkers with the shop’s collection, magically fixing what he can. He’s found that he’s quite good at it, making those small repairs and restoring things to their former glory. He likes it.

And he likes walking the streets and seeing people with their hooked noses or weak chins or abundance of freckles - people who are flawed and interesting and so obviously _real,_ as opposed to the buffed, polished versions on tv. He likes the muddy Thames and the decidedly not-picturesque rainy afternoons, and the fact that his favorite takeaway curry is so spicy that it makes his upper lip sweat.

He likes _life_ and the messy, random, meandering nature of it all. He’s not telling a story; he’s just existing. And that’s enough for right now. 

He stops in at the pub in the evenings, the manky carpet a bit sticky beneath his shoes, and has a pint while Eliot chats with one of the locals or, depending on what additional substances he might have ingested, with Lenny the Pub Cat. It’s a good life, but a small one, and it’s almost time to move on - Quentin can sense that Eliot is starting to get the itch - but London has been a wonderful place to start.

In fact, he kind of wishes he was back there right now.

But then Eliot heads to the well-stocked bar on the hut’s wide porch and says, “Well, this is nothing the liberal application of rum won’t fix,” and sets to making them all some kind of complicated but delicious - and very potent - cocktails.

And as the night goes on (and the rum does its job) Quentin relaxes enough to notice that their hosts are a little different now than when he last saw them. It’s as if they’ve unwound a bit and steadied, or become rooted - but are also somehow lighter, like the massive chips on both their shoulders have shrunk. They smile more, glare less, and have some softness at their rough edges.

They’re still Kady and Penny (and he’s still slightly terrified of them both) but he’s happy for them, too. They seem to have settled into something that suits them.

And when the countdown to midnight happens and Eliot sweeps him into a silly, dramatic dip for their midnight kiss, Quentin is smiling, genuinely happy to be starting the year with people he truly considers friends. 

Everything feels fresh and cleansed and new - a chance to begin yet another lifetime together. And Quentin can’t help but feel hope bubbling up in his chest at the idea of all those decades stretching out before them, Eliot’s familiar hand clutched in his. 

 

**St. Patrick’s Day**

 

They planned to spend the end of the winter glamping in the Egyptian desert, mostly because Eliot got drunk and watched _The Mummy_ one too many times, getting confused about whether he wanted to _fuck_ 90s-era Brendan Fraser or _become_ 90s-era Brendan Fraser.

And at first it was wonderful - quiet and remote with bright, clear days, cool evening breezes, and inky night skies filled with more stars than either of them ever realized existed. Eliot was always dressed in white shirts, desert khakis, and leather boots while picturesquely lounging around their enormous canvas tent, which was well-appointed with piles of rugs, antique furniture, and billowing mosquito netting.

They spent their time playing chess and drinking out of crystal decanters and trying to ignore the fact that there was sand absolutely fucking _everywhere_.

It lasted just over a week. 

Then they decided to go to Colorado and take up skiing instead, an activity Quentin attempted precisely once. He rolled down the bunny hill in spectacular fashion, immediately abandoned his equipment, and vowed he would never attempt it again - no matter how many lifetimes he had left to live.

Eliot, on the other hand, took to it like breathing, zipping around in designer ski wear, flush-faced and tousle-haired when he snuggled up with Quentin in the lodge at the end of the day, sipping hot toddies by the cheerily snapping fire. 

This managed to entertain them for ten days. 

But it rapidly devolved into boring monotony and now they’re both sick of it; tired of the cold, short days and remote location _._ They’re ready to find a city, something vibrant and young and alive.

And then, just as they’re about to make their final decision as to where they should head next, they get up late one morning and find Julia standing in the living room of their ski chalet, holding two coffees and a secretive smile. 

“Come with me.”

“Shouldn’t we change first?” Quentin asks, gesturing at his striped pajama pants and Eliot’s silk robe.

“Actually, pajamas are perfect for where we’re going.” Julia hands over the coffees, takes their free hands, winks conspiratorially at Quentin for some reason he can’t discern, and they’re gone.

They land in the courtyard of a castle, its dark brown spires jutting into the sky far above their heads. Bare trees are planted at regular intervals, bats rustle in the distant eaves, and dried leaves drift around them on a cool, sweet-smelling wind. At the far end of the open space is a raised black gate, leading to a white bridge spanning a moat filled with something that looks exactly like melted chocolate.

It’s utterly bizarre, and yet something about it is slightly familiar to Quentin - but he doesn’t quite figure it out until an enormous, shockingly pink cartoon Frankenstein monster strolls by, arm in arm with a large white ghost wearing a hat and bowtie.

“Oh, _fuck._ That’s—“

“Yep,” Julia says, popping the ‘p’ sound with delight. “Franken Berry and his partner, Boo Berry. They’re the Berrys.”

Franken and Berry give them all a little wave and continue on their way, disappearing into the brown castle.

“But… they’re _cereal mascots_.” Quentin’s brain does not seem to want to wrap itself around the idea of cartoons breathing and talking and walking around, despite the fact that he once was one himself.

“I really should have figured out they were a gay couple ages ago,” Eliot muses. “They’re interesting, well-groomed, not afraid of bright colors - and they even share a last name, for fuck’s sake.” He smirks. “You know, I ate Franken Berry all the time when I was a kid, and this information makes my traumatic redneck childhood far more erotic and slightly less homophobic than I previously realized. How delightfully refreshing.”

Quentin is still blinking too much, his hands flapping around a little as he tries to catch up. When he looks closer, he realizes the brown castle is actually made of chocolate, as is the moat. The gate is constructed of enormous black licorice strings that have been woven together. And he’s willing to bet that the castle’s multicolored window panes are panels of spun sugar. “So this, where we’re standing, this place is—“

“Count Chocula’s castle. All the Halloween-themed characters live here. The Froot Loop Lagoon is a few miles south, and that white on the horizon is the snowy peaks of the Frosted Flake Mountains. And there, just across the river, is Lucky Charms Land - which seems like an appropriate destination for St. Patrick’s Day.”

She leads them out of the castle’s courtyard and across the marshmallow bridge to a green river that snakes across the landscape. Arcing across it is a bright, glowing rainbow; it’s shaped like a perfect half-circle bridging to the other side, where a gigantic pot of gold sits on the riverbank.

And, apparently, they can _walk_ on it.

Julia leads them to the rainbow’s highest point, gesturing as she goes at fields of four-leafed clover stretching toward a miniature-sized town, its cobblestone streets filled with green-clad leprechauns bustling about. “And that’s just what we can see from here,” Julia continues, “but there’s tons more. I built this whole world.”

“…and it’s devoted to sugary breakfast cereals,” Quentin says, slowly, still trying to take it all in. He’s walking on colored light in an edible world populated by cartoon characters that was created by his goddess of a best friend. It’s a bit much.

“Yeah,” Julia says, beaming. “There’s dozens of these themed planets so far. I made ones for books and movies and songs and paintings - for my favorites, and Penny’s, and Kady’s.” She loops her arm through Quentin’s and tugs him close to her. “This one was for you, though, Q. For all those early mornings eating cereal and watching cartoons when we were kids, and the late nights we’d spend studying on the couch eating cereal straight out of the box - and then the hungover mornings where we were doing the same thing. Those memories make me happy, so I thought I’d do something great with them.”

Quentin ruffles his hair with his hand and huffs out a laugh, a slow smile spreading across his face. “This is kind of crazy, Jules.”

“I know,” she says with an easy shrug, strands of her dark hair dancing around her face on the wind. “But, as weird as it sounds, I was sort of inspired by what the monster did with you guys. I wanted to take the fun and whimsy of it and leave out all the, you know, abject terror.”

“It’s like a reverse Fillory,” Eliot muses, staring out at the landscape before them; Quentin stares at _him,_ forehead crumpled in confusion. “You know, it’s like how that pedophiliac Plover wrote the supposedly-fictional books about an actually-real place. Julia took did the reverse. She took fictional things and made them real.”

An oversized bumblebee buzzes by Quentin’s right ear, and when he recognizes its smiling face from the front of a Cheerio’s box, he can’t help but smile back.

“It’s so magical,” he finally says.

“Well, yeah. Most things in our lives are,” Julia teases.

“No, I mean it’s magical in the way it was always _supposed_ to be. Like when we were kids lying under a table together and dreaming of Fillory. This… it feels like that.”

In the emerald river below them, a pod of bubblegum pink dolphins leap into the air, golden glitter spraying from their blowholes.

Quentin’s eyebrows scrunch together. “What cereal is that from?”

Julia shrugs. “I took some creative liberties. You try building an entire world off the cartoon on the front of a cereal box.”

“Well, I love it,” Eliot says, smiling in that small, soft way that means it’s real and unrehearsed. He takes a cigarette from the pack in his robe’s pocket and hands another to Julia. She lights them through no effort that Quentin can see, and Eliot exhales a thin stream of smoke before continuing, “This rainbow bridge in particular is spectacular.”

“And appropriately symbolic, for the three of us,” Julia answers.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, “how are things with Kady and Penny-Squared?”

“Really good.” Julia looks out at her oversaturated, rainbow-colored world and smiles, her face serene and a little secretive, like she’s decoded a map to a buried treasure that’s just for her. _X marks the spot where Julia finds joy_. “Everything is actually really, really good. Finally.”

 

**Fourth of July**

 

It’s been at least a week since Quentin put on any pants.

Or clothes at all, actually. Eliot somehow got his hands on an honest-to-Ember _yacht,_ then enchanted the boat to drive itself while Quentin cast a spell on their skin to keep it from burning, and that was the last productive thing either of them have done. It’s been a month (more or less, Quentin’s not exactly counting) of drifting around the azure waters of the Caribbean, all music and champagne and fresh seafood and lazily observing the way the sunlight plays off the waves and one another’s skin.

This afternoon they sailed into Biscayne Bay, off the coast of Miami, and spent the evening watching the sun set in a blaze of warm pink light on the western horizon while eating a delicious sushi dinner that Eliot had expertly prepared. Then he’d offered Quentin a massage that, of course, concentrated almost entirely on his dick—

—and now Eliot’s sliding into him slow and easy while the first of the city’s fireworks display fills the sky overhead, its explosive staccato piercing the familiar sounds of water slapping against the hull and skin on skin.

Quentin’s not sure how many times he’s come today - four, five maybe? The past couple of weeks have blurred into a haze of sex and sunshine, leaving him boneless and blissed out, his anxiety finally burned away and his body unspooled into a liquid, limitless pleasure.

They’re on a chaise on the back deck, Eliot kneeling between Quentin’s spread thighs, his arm hooked through the bend of Quentin’s left leg, Quentin’s right foot braced on the boat’s railing.  Eliot’s upper body is nearly upright above him, tilting Quentin’s hips in his lap until the angle is just right, tossing a long curl out of his face with a jerk of his neck.

Quentin can see the vast expanse of Eliot’s pale chest outlined against the dark sky, painted in sporadic blues and reds and golds as the fireworks burst, some close enough that he can feel the percussive _boom_ of them thrumming through his bones. Eliot’s lips are slightly parted and his gaze is soft and unfocused, but he is regal and controlled and moving in such a precise way that Quentin is half convinced the fireworks were all part of his plan, orchestrated to create this exact aesthetic. 

Eliot draws out to just the tip, then pushes forward in one long, smooth, deliciously slow stroke. Over and over again, steady and deep, meditative and worshipful.

And lying there, with the humid air sticking to his sweat-slicked skin and Eliot’s hips moving against him, Quentin can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of _rightness_. Like this is somehow the place where he finally belongs, this nameless patch of ocean with the rhythmic rocking of the boat around him and the man inside him; this moment that stretches beyond the constraints of time until it feels endless and eternal.

He breathes deep and even, smelling the salt of the air and of their skin, and he feels solid and whole and anchored, Eliot’s fingers pressing into his hips as he keeps steadily thrusting into him. So often when they’re together it feels like a drug, a frenzy, a fall from the top of a speeding rollercoaster. It can be overwhelming and all-consuming - but not tonight. Tonight is simple and steady and slow.

Quentin is _here_ , completely. The seat is still sun-warm beneath him and the sky is exploding overhead and everything in between is Eliot, Eliot, Eliot.

 

**Labor Day**

 

Penny40 pops in on them outside a train station in Istanbul, seven minutes after they disembarked the modern Orient Express. Eliot insisted on packing his extensive wardrobe in an historically-accurate steamer trunk with his initials embossed on the side, and even with the spell they cast to make it lighter, Quentin is struggling a little with the bulk.

“Pathetic,” Penny says, scowling as Quentin nearly trips over his own feet for the third time. Quentin tries to frown back, but the tangled hank of hair stuck to his sweaty forehead sort of ruins the effect. “Look, Alice wants to see you guys, so she asked me to bring you.”

“How’d you find us?”

“Your wards are still shit, Coldwater.”

“Good to know some things haven’t changed,” Quentin mutters, dropping the trunk with a thud and shoving his hair out of his face. “When and where are we going?”

Penny doesn’t bother to answer. He just grabs both Eliot and Quentin’s elbows and travels out.

* * *

“Well, that was unnecessarily abrupt,” Eliot says, smoothing his hand over his hair to ensure that not a single perfect curl is out of place, and then taking a bracing pull from his flask. Quentin just keeps frowning, jerking his arm out of Penny’s grip.

Alice is standing before them, prim in a pencil skirt, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “Thank you, Penny,” she says.

“I’m not a fucking taxi, you know,” he grumbles, but he’s already softening at the sight of Alice’s placid face. "But you’re welcome.” He nods to Eliot, sneers at Quentin, and disappears.

Quentin doesn’t even really notice; he’s too distracted by the bustle around him. He’s pretty sure they’re in the Library but it’s nearly unrecognizable — gone is the austere silence and harsh lighting. It’s now a warm, thriving space, filled with the low hum of murmuring voices and the dull thuds of dozens of footfalls.

“Wow,” he says, slightly stupefied. “Alice, this is…”

“A definite glow-up,” Eliot finishes for him, reaching a hesitant but affectionate hand to Alice’s shoulder. “For both the Library and you.”

And she does, actually, look great; her hair is shining and her skin has a healthy pink tone. But beyond that, Alice seems more relaxed and at home in her own skin, like she’s finally made peace with who she is and found space for all the multitudes she contains.

“Thank you,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking away, still a little awkward at the compliment. “How about a tour?”

* * *

The Library appears to stretch on infinitely in every direction, with Quentin and Eliot trailing behind Alice for what seems like miles. They walk through traditional rooms containing carefully organized stacks, but now they’re also filled with people reading and taking notes and pulling books off the shelves. And the Library has gone so far beyond that. There’s communal work spaces with plush recliners and convenient charging stations, a large children’s area complete with a playhouse and multilevel slide, at least half a dozen magical media centers, hallways lined with cozy, soundproof study carrels, and even a large coffee bar that also serves sandwiches and pastries. 

Quentin is overwhelmed. “This is incredible, Alice. It’s so different - you’ve done so much work.”

“Not just me - I have a small group of dedicated librarians, and then there’s a ton of volunteers. We’ve been really fortunate that so many people have wanted to get involved. Even Penny helps out.”

Quentin raises his eyebrows. “ _Our_ Penny?”

“Yes. He leads the Thursday night book club. Even brings cupcakes sometimes.”

Quentin has no idea how to respond to this. The sweat on his back from the Turkish sun has barely had time to dry, and now he’s left the Earth entirely and is standing in the world’s most impressive magical library, talking to his formerly dead ex-girlfriend like everything is normal.

Which, actually, it kind of is. This _is_ his new normal.

Alice, oblivious to Quentin’s meandering thoughts, is continuing her tour by gesturing at the impressive central circulation desk. “We started out here, with providing the basic functions of a library. Then we simply asked the magical community what they wanted the Library to become.” She shrugs a little. “After that, our job was just to make it happen.”

A group of teen girls passes by them, giggling and stealing glances at Eliot, who is actively disregarding the dozens of “No Smoking” signs plastered on the walls.

“But how does everyone _get_ here?” Quentin asks. “Have you hired, like, a shitload of travelers or something?

“Ah, no. That’s actually thanks to a little invention of mine.” Alice has that look on her face she used to get when she was the only one who knew the correct answer in class, and Quentin can’t stop the little tug of nostalgia in his chest. It’s for Alice, and for who he used to be; for those comparatively simple days at Brakebills before he was killing gods and endlessly questing and starring in televised monster mayhem.

And yet, he knows he wouldn’t go back, even if he could. He’s gained more than he’s lost.

“Any magical creature can come here as long as they use these,” Alice says, handing them each a small card. 

“It’s a library card,” Eliot says, holding it at a bit of a distance and eyeing warily. He’s never completely comfortable with anything involving books. 

“Not just any card,” Alice says. “I created a spell to allow unlimited interdimensional travel - it was a bit complicated, actually, considering the nearly infinite sets of Circumstances it has to work under and the widely varying biological structures of the magical community… but that’s not the point. The point is that the cards are enchanted so that all you have to do is touch the logo once and you come here. Then touch it again when you’re finished and you’ll be returned right back to where you came from. It works 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, across every known world. And everyone who wants one gets one.”

“That’s brilliant, Alice,” Quentin says. “But then, of course it is. It was your idea.”

She smiles and pushes her glasses up her nose, then straightens her already perfect posture. She clearly has something she wants to say, and Quentin knows her well enough to know that she probably rehearsed it in the bathroom mirror half a dozen times before they arrived. So he just waits, quiet and patient.

“Thank you for saying that, and thank you for coming here.” Her eyes flick away for a second, but she forces herself to look at Quentin when she continues. “I know… I know I did a lot of things wrong - both as a niffin and a magician - and I hurt you both. And I’m sorry for that. But honestly, I learned a lot, too, especially when I had access to all knowledge as a niffin. It made me realize that everyone else should have the same opportunity, preferably without having to die first. So I’m using the Library to provide that. And I hope it makes up for some of the damage I caused.”

“The past is the past, Alice,” Eliot says, his features soft and compassionate. “It’s behind us. And you’ve created something amazing here; you should be very proud.”

“I know I’m proud of you,” Quentin says, his voice a little strained around the lump in his throat.

Alice nods and relaxes, some invisible weight lifted from her small shoulders. “Well, I’ll let you get back to… whatever it is you’re doing these days. But please, come back anytime.”

She pulls Quentin into a tentative hug and he breathes in her smell of sugar and vanilla and espresso; the press of her curves against him is both so familiar and not quite like he remembers, as if he’s putting on an old, favorite shirt that’s been shrunk in the dryer. 

And then Alice lets go and Quentin steps back; Eliot taps his library card with one hand and threads the fingers of the other through Quentin’s.

That fits just right.

 

**Thanksgiving**

 

American Thanksgiving is, unsurprisingly, not a thing in Fillory.

Still, Margo always held a fondness for the holiday in the secret, squishy center of her heart. It’s a celebration devoted to being grateful for the good things in your life, and she certainly knows how to appreciate good things.

Which is why Eliot was in no way surprised to hear that date in the throaty, harsh voice of the bunny that dropped on the floor of the bar they were in the process of renovating two weeks ago.

“At castle. Getting married.”

Quentin and Eliot exchanged worried glances - they’d heard this message before. And between all the work Margo faced when she returned to Fillory and their own haphazard jaunts around the world, they hadn’t seen her in far too long. It was possible that something terrible had happened.

But then two more bunnies popped in. “To Fen. Very happy,” the first said, and the tension slid out of Eliot’s shoulders; a surprised smile teased at the corners of Quentin’s mouth. The other bunny chimed in with, “It’s on Thanksgiving Day.”

And a final one popped in to say, “Need best men, dickholes.”

So now they’re here, back in Fillory, standing in the throne room. At least, they think they are - but Whitespire is almost unrecognizable. 

Every surface seems to be draped with something gauzy and white, or covered in flowers, or - most often - both. Rose petals rain gently from the ceiling under some sort of enchantment, candles float in every shadowy corner, and the opium that’s naturally in the air seems to be amplified a little. It’s gorgeous and golden and glittering; it’s beyond excessive and perfectly Margo. 

Which is appropriate, given that it’s her big day and all. 

Eliot straightens the cuffs on his brocade Fillorian suit, then nervously adjusts Quentin’s tie. 

“Breathe, El. It’s not like it’s _your_ wedding.”

“No, that would be simple, comparatively speaking. This is _Bambi’s_ wedding. To my ex-wife, who I’m actually quite fond of. It needs to be beyond perfect.” Eliot lights a cigarette and takes a sharp inhale.

“Fen’s not your ex-wife. She’s…”

“The woman I was formerly married to? Pretty sure that’s the definition of an ex-wife, Q.”

“But it’s not like you two are divorced, technically. Or were ever, like, _married_ married, in a, you know, _real_ way. A way that actually meant something. You just had an arrangement - she’s supposed to be married to the High King. And now, well, that’s no longer you.”

“Thank god,” Margo says, stalking into the room with her hair in curlers and wearing a short silk robe. “The crown suits my coloring better, and that girl deserves a spouse who can fuck her properly.”

“I find myself in equal measures of agreement and offense,” Eliot says, frowning as he bends down to kiss her.

“I, uh, I guess I didn’t realize your relationship with Fen was… like that,” Quentin says. “I thought this wedding was just to hold to the arrangement with her father.”

“It’s because Fen deserves it,” Margo says. “She was incredible while I was busy being Janet and then saving your asses from the syndicated monster weirdness. She held this whole shitshow of a monarchy together.” She leans into one of the decorative mirrors and swipes beneath her eye, flicking away some invisible stray fleck of mascara. “And our relationship _is_ like that, sometimes,” she continues with a nonchalant wave. “She’s hot and smart and hard-working, which are three of my favorite qualities in a partner. But we’re hardly stuck with one another monogamously.”

“But… the wedding. The whole Fillorian fidelity mandate-“

Margo raises an eyebrow and starts ticking items off on her fingers. “I’m the ruling High King of Fillory, a very talented magician, and - most importantly - Margo Motherfucking Hanson. You really think I don’t have enough power to change a few backwards, restrictive rules regarding monogamy?”

Eliot sighs and drapes himself dramatically over the throne. “Why didn’t I ever think of that?”

Margo affectionately pinches the cleft in his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Because you’re not _me,_ darling.”

Quentin tilts his head. “So that whole vibe I was picking up with you and Josh back in Antarctica, is that still…?”

“He hangs around the castle selling weed to the guards, which irritates the shit out of me. It’s a situation we deal with by hate-fucking several times a week.” A wicked smile curves across her flawlessly lipsticked mouth. "He’s a real animal in the sack - and out of it, depending on what stage the Fillorian moons are in. ”

And without further warning, Margo unselfconsciously drops her robe, exposing an unblemished expanse of dewy, honey-colored skin. Her manicured fingers work a quick conjuring spell and her wedding dress appears in her arms; she smiles at it softly for a second before thrusting it at Quentin.

“Here. It’s going to take all three of us to lace me into this complicated fucker.” She winks. “Good thing I’ll have lots of hands to help me out of it later.”

* * *

The wedding is actually quite intimate, considering its royal nature. There’s a hundred or so guests seated in the throne room, with Margo and Fen standing on the unadorned dais. (Margo insisted that it be free of any decoration that could potentially hide axes.) Humbledrum officiates, his deep tones and slow cadence nearly hypnotic.

And, despite the strangeness of the situation for Eliot, he’s thrilled to see Margo again; her presence fills an empty place in his heart that he hadn’t realized had formed. The time they’ve spent apart has altered their dynamic a little, but that’s to be expected - it’s altered _who_ they are, too.

And that’s not a bad thing. Change has been the only constant in Eliot’s already unnaturally long and bizarre life, and he and Margo will shift and adjust until they create a new way to fit their lives back together. They still love each other fiercely, and he knows that’s powerful enough to overcome whatever weirdness life throws their way. 

His decades with Quentin have taught him that lesson time and again.

The ceremony is honest and romantic and moving; Margo and Fen seem genuinely happy, flushed and glowing and moving with more ease than he remembers either of them possessing for a long time, their polished crowns glistening atop their curled hair.

Power suits them. Fillory suits them. And, if the crowd of cheering citizens gathered outside the palace walls is any indication, they’re good for Fillory, too.

Eliot can’t really wish for anything more than that.

* * *

“Hey, so, are you okay, being back here without a crown of your own?” Quentin asks Eliot later, after the vows have been said and the cake has been cut and Margo and Fen have snuck off to their royal chambers with Josh and a particularly attractive palace guard in tow. 

Now it’s just the two of them swaying around the dance floor, Eliot’s hands resting on Quentin’s waist, his thumbs trailing across the sharp line of his hipbones under his dress pants.

“It fits Bambi better,” Eliot answers, surprised to find that he genuinely means it. “I’m glad she’s the High King now, and that she and Fen are happy together.” He pulls Quentin in a little closer, his large hands pressing against his back. “Fillory saved me once, but it’s not where my story ends. It’s not my home.”

“Oh, no?” Quentin asks, raising an eyebrow. “So where is?”

Eliot just looks down at him and smiles.

 

**Christmas**

 

Everything gleams. The mahogany bar, the polished glassware hanging above it, Kady’s hair, Margo’s nails, Fen’s wedding band, Julia’s lipgloss, Alice and Josh’s glasses, Penny23’s dark eyes, and Penny40’s annoyingly perfect teeth. It’s all lit by candlelight and the thousands of twinkling Christmas lights that are strung over nearly every available surface.

Quentin and Eliot’s small bar is closed for the holiday but currently warm and loud and crowded with their friends, a bright contrast against the silent and snow-filled streets outside.

And that’s become their routine. Sure, Christmas is an excuse to exchange presents and drink a little more heavily than normal, but they’ve been having these little family dinners almost daily for a couple of weeks now. Between their resident travelers, goddess, Alice’s library card, and moving the Fillory clock into a corner of the bar, gathering everyone together has become easier than Uber.

It’s a creaky old place - lots of dark wood and paneling, with a tin ceiling and cheery stone fireplace - and nothing like what Quentin would have thought Eliot wanted when he first decided he was ready to settle down and open a bar. But he’d taken one look at the cramped, drafty space and put in an offer immediately. “It reminds me of our cottage,” he’d admitted in a small voice after he was certain the real estate agent was out of earshot.

And something about it _is_ reminiscent of that tiny cottage they’d shared in Fillory ages ago... which was half the reason Quentin had been sure they would never buy it. Those old memories remain so tender in places, Arielle and Teddy’s names still not spoken without hesitation, their tongues tripping over the shape of once-familiar syllables. 

But they found the strength to move past that and to be here, in their strangely cottage-like bar, with their cozy apartment on the second floor. They’re healing, slowly, in fits and starts. And they have their family, this little group of brilliant weirdos, currently laughing at some ridiculous story Josh is telling, complete with a conjured PowerPoint presentation hovering over his head.

A fire burns merrily in the hearth, its light perfectly illuminating Eliot’s hands as he mixes another round of drinks and complementing the soft yellow glow of the vintage jukebox in the corner. It’s playing some cheesy ‘80s song that Julia and Kady picked out a minute ago, giggling and poking at the buttons with interlaced fingers.

Quentin feels a kind of comfort that has become familiar, steady and warm and easy in a way that he’s far too young to have earned. It’s a contentment found in a lifetime of glances and touches and chats and bickering, of knowing another person so thoroughly that they no longer feel like a separate person but an adjacent piece of a larger whole.

But that bone-deep familiarity somehow doesn’t stop Quentin from being mesmerized by Eliot. It’s been lifetimes, plural, since they met. He’s had decades more time than anyone gets to learn every inch of Eliot’s skin - and he’s a _very_ good student. But he keeps being surprised with new and powerful fascinations.

Like right now, he can’t get enough of Eliot’s hands. How strong and capable they are, their precision when working magic contrasting with their elegance and fluidity at every other task. His long fingers, the carefully shaped pink of his fingernails, the way the tendons flex and dance under his smooth, pale skin. And the way Eliot is constantly putting those hands on Quentin, in small everyday ways - sliding across his back as he walks past him, absently combing through his hair as they watch tv, straightening his collar or sliding into the back pocket of his jeans.

Every touch is warm and electric and far more magical than any spell they’ve ever worked.

* * *

After everyone has had enough to drink that they’re loud and flushed and laughing, they exchange presents. They range from the heartfelt - Fen forged a beautiful sword for Margo, with a gleaming silver blade and an intricate gold hilt that’s engraved with something so private and touching that it makes even Margo tear up and refuse to let anyone else read it - to the ridiculous, like the travel-sized bottle of Axe Body Spray with a cheap bow taped to the top that Penny40 gives Quentin. 

The wide wood planks of the bar’s floor slowly transform into a sea of discarded wrapping paper and untied strings of shiny ribbon, and everyone is hugging and grinning and shouting exuberant thank you’s at one another.

And then there’s more drinks and singing Christmas carols and bad dancing, and at some point Josh takes a stocking off the hearth and starts wearing it on his head.

“Oh!” Alice exclaims out of nowhere, glassy-eyed and a little too loud. “I brought _cookies!”_

She’s fumbling and a little clumsy, wobbling on her suddenly much-too-tall barstool, but she eventually manages to produce a small tin. Julia pries off the lid and finds it filled with cookies that Alice baked herself, so of course they’re perfect little gingerbread men decorated with precision to resemble each member of their group. There’s Penny’s scarf and Josh’s glasses, Eliot’s height and Margo’s crown. Each one even has a tiny rendering of their matching memory binding tattoos.

“Hey, it’s us!” Julia says with a smile. “Look, Kady, this one looks just like you—“

—and Kady immediately bites off its wild-haired head.

Julia starts protesting Kady’s self-destructive tendencies but Kady ignores her completely, laughing loudly around her mouthful of cookie, crumbs spewing everywhere. And one look at Julia’s stormy expression warns Penny23 of an incipient drunken bickering session, so he casts the first spell he can think of as a distraction.

It works, Julia and Alice squealing with delight as the cookies climb out of their little tin and walk around on their own, bending and waving and hopping about. Everyone has fun choreographing little cookie dances and acrobatics on the bar for about six seconds before Josh’s pervy tendencies intervene. He makes the Quentin cookie bend over in front of the Eliot cookie, the Eliot cookie thrusting and spanking Quentin’s ass.

Which means that, of course, the situation quickly devolves into an erotic cookie free-for-all. Julia’s cookie and Headless Kady start scissoring, Quentin makes the two Pennys suck each other off, and Margo puts her cookie’s hand on top of Josh’s cookie’s head, shoving his iced face down her baked body.

It’s stupid and immature and unbearably fun, and it feels like exactly what they should be doing at this point in their lives. They’ve all earned a little stupid fun.

And Quentin can’t stop smiling and laughing, loud and easy. Everything about this moment feels so comfortable and _right,_ and yet he knows he’s not the same person that he was just a year ago. He’s a little wiser, a little kinder, a little less anxious. He’s solid and more defined, somehow, as if his edges are aren’t quite so blurred by the fog of depression.

Even his face feels different, like it’s learned how to hold softer, easier expressions instead of always contorting itself into worried grimaces and sad smiles. 

He looks up at Eliot, drunkenly studying his sharp profile and the way his rolled shirtsleeves lie against his taut forearms, wondering what parts of him may have changed, too. But El just winks at him and rests a warm hand on the back of Quentin’s neck, toying absently with his long hair.

So Quentin lets it go. He lets everything go, exhaling in a way that releases every last bit of tension from his body. All that matters is that he’s safe, and free, and loved. He’s surrounded by his family.

And he’s finally, _finally_ home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love to anyone who has gone on this weird little journey with me, and especially those who support it with kudos and comments and tumblr messages — I sincerely cannot thank you enough. It means the world to me.


End file.
